


The Earth Stood Still

by Radclyffe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Story: The Adventure of the Dancing Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 27,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: Post Series Four, as John and Rosie face their first Christmas without Mary, Sherlock Holmes is also facing a solitary future.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 67
Kudos: 195
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Snowflake

**Author's Note:**

> A last minute decision to enter the 2019 Advent challenge brought on by a dull Sunday afternoon. I will do my best to keep up.

The thaw in the relations between Sally Donovan and Sherlock Holmes (brought about largely by Sally’s uneasy acknowledgement that her readiness to believe him capable of the most heinous of crimes had contributed to detective’s decision to take his own life) did not last long after his resurrection.

At Sherlock’s first appearance at a crime scene after his return she had been almost glad to see him. Even Sally could observe that he was thinner, looked tired and lacked his normal insouciance that had made him quite insufferable in the past. Lestrade had said he was different since his return, and for her part, Sally was prepared to give him a second chance.

Then came the death of Charles Augustus Magnussen, and that weird business with Moriarty all over the TV screens, the bizarre murder of Mary Watson at the London Aquarium of all places and then some rumour about a break out at maximum security place that no one was supposed to know about; all of which, Sally was convinced, Sherlock Holmes played a much greater part in than she was permitted to know. That was what really got to her, that she, as a long serving police officer was excluded from this little club that were in on everything, while Sherlock Holmes, an amateur liability got a free pass to it all.

The Boss always did have a soft spot for the Freak, but it seemed to be stronger, even paternal, since Sherlock’s return, she was certain it wasn’t just a case of absence making the heart grow fonder, the dynamic had changed. Rather than hovering between harassed and embarrassed the Boss seemed to be grateful for Sherlock’s random interventions. Sally didn’t like it, but on the whole it made her temper her own opinions when she was around them both.

Until Sherlock had flounced into one crime scene too many, briefly looked her up and down and deduced in great detail and at volume her latest romantic misadventure. While Sally could have argued that Steve was already separated by the time they got together, it was a moot point, it hadn’t her taken long to realise the guy was a complete waste of space – no wonder his wife had left him.

Sally knew her taste in men was lousy but she didn’t need a self-confessed sociopath to point it out, her mother and her sister were more than capable of doing that.

Lestrade was down the other end of the room, and Sally at last had the opportunity she had been waiting for.

“Fantastic! Thank you Sherlock… relationship advice from a Freak who’s never had girlfriend… or boyfriend… or even a pet for that matter, you’re wasted as a detective you should take up counselling. I’m sure your sidekick would appreciate it. Though I’ve not seem him about recently. Don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise? I guess it took a bit of doing, but it seems like getting his wife killed and leaving his daughter motherless has finally frightened him off.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the other officers, as Sally paused for effect. There was more but the words died on her lips as she caught the briefest of shadows cloud Sherlock’s face before a mask came down.

_Completely stricken._

“Thank you Sally, you’ve made yourself abundantly clear.” Sherlock popped his collar and with a fluid movement turned to the nearest SOCO, “The villain was obviously in collusion with the couple's domestic worker, find her and you'll have your perpetrator. Tell Geoff I’ll be back at Baker Street if he needs me.”

The moment he was gone Sally was surrounded by her protesting colleagues.

“I’ve known him years.” She countered “He won’t even remember the conversation.”

The expression on his face had been so fleeting she couldn’t even be sure she’d seen anything remarkable. But she knew she hadn’t hurt his feelings; by definition he didn’t have any. Sherlock Holmes was very last person you’d call a snowflake.


	2. Wish

Somewhere in the flat a phone was ringing. It had been ringing on and off for over an hour and Sherlock was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore.

Prone on the replacement couch, Sherlock had spent the last sixteen hours deep in his Mind Palace. He had spent most of that time raking over the old coals of the last six months and failing to reach any satisfactory conclusions about any number of problems that vexed him presently. The rest of the time he had slept.

The phone started up again, Sherlock sighed, his own fault for putting the wretched thing on charge when he had got in yesterday evening. Reluctantly Sherlock opened his eyes, blinked, and surveyed his surroundings. The recently refurbished Baker Street sitting room, complete with the furniture with rounded edges designed to accommodate a small child who seldom visited still took him by surprise every time. He supposed eventually he would get used to it. He might even start to clutter the place up again, not point preserving its pristine state for an event that would never happen.

He reached for his mobile and saw he had twenty-six missed calls, all from Mrs Hudson. Vaguely alarmed, Sherlock walked to the top of the stairs and called his landlady.

A moment later, Mrs Hudson popped her head out of 221A.

“Oh, you are still alive then, I was beginning to wonder.”

“Mrs Hudson why this incessant ringing? You could have just come up.”

“I did dear, twice but you were dead to the world. I can’t keep running up and down those stairs, not with my hip. I need your help.”

Sherlock grumbled, “at the very least I trust that a gang of international jewel thieves have taken up residence in 219A,” but he went downstairs anyway. There was a whiff of baking in the air, and he could do with a cup of tea.

Mrs Hudson’s kitchen was the second place where Sherlock felt most at home, after his own flat. There was a fresh tray of mince pies just out of the oven, Sherlock reached for one automatically, and received a sharp rap on the back of his hand with a wooden spoon.

“You’ll burn yourself on the filling.”

Sherlock bit into the pastry anyway. “Ow!”

“What did I say? Now I need your help with this.”

This was a bowl of a light brown mixture with various dried fruits peeking out of the mess, stood on the kitchen table.

“I’m making my Christmas puddings, I’m late this year, Stir-Up Sunday was last week, but with everything that has been going on I completely forgot about it, and then Tesco’s had sold out of candied peel and I had to go to the big Waitrose instead.”

Sherlock had tuned out for most of this, gingerly feeling his burnt lip with his tongue and wishing Mrs H would put the kettle on.

“And your point is?”

“I need you to stir it, and make a wish of course.”

Sherlock looked at his landlady as if she had asked him to appear at the Royal Ballet in the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

“What?”

“Stir the pudding and make a wish. It’s tradition.”

“I understand the need to stir, although I cannot see why you need my assistance, it is your hip that troubles you not your wrist. But why you wish me to engage in some superstitious ritual while doing so is beyond me.”

“You Holmes! You know how to take the fun out of everything. Its tradition, when I was a girl all us children would gather round the pudding bowl and take a turn, before Ma put the charms in.

Mrs Hudson looked wistful for a moment, “I had hoped that little Rosie would be here to help me but…”

“I suspect Watson’s fine motor skills are yet to be sufficiently developed to assist you.”

“Well, there’s always next year…” Mrs Hudson pulled herself together and placed the wooden spoon into Sherlock’s hand, “So, in the absence of any real children you’ll have to do. Stir the pudding.”

Obediently Sherlock began to move the mixture around the bowl with the spoon.

“Not like that, East to West, same as the Wise Men… that’s better. Now make a wish.”

“Mrs Hudson, you are very dear to me, and for that reason alone I am prepared to participate in a palpably pagan ritual usurped by the Christian church in commemoration of the purported birth of a Judean insurrectionist of the first century C.E. But as for making a wish, I refuse to contemplate a gesture even more futile than offering prayers to the deity the birth of whose alleged son started the whole circus in the first place.”

Mrs Hudson’s face fell, “it’s just a piece of fun, and that is something that is certainly in short supply around here.

“Sherlock, there must be something you would like, how about a nice locked room murder?”

Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt, what did it cost him to humour a friend, and a locked room murder would be nice. He gave the mixture a half-hearted stir.

“I wish…”

“Not out loud, silly boy. Now another one.”

Getting the hang of it, Sherlock made a mental request for access to some interesting body parts from Bart’s and stirred again.

“I wish…”

“Just one more.”

“Another one?”

“Three’s the charm, Sherlock, make another wish.”

Sherlock was stumped… except there was something he wanted, very much. It was never going to happen but as there was no scientific basis to wishing what difference would it make. Picking up both the wooden spoon and the bowl he gave the mixture another vigorous stir.

“I wish…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stir-Up Sunday comes from the collect (special prayer) for the last Sunday before Advent in the Church of England Book of Common Prayer and is the day traditionally Christmas puddings were made.
> 
> Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.


	3. The More the Merrier

The Christmas puddings, one large two small, were in their basins and covered with muslin cloths ready for their first steaming, and Mrs Hudson and Sherlock were sitting down to a well-earned cup of tea when they heard the door knocker.

“I’ll go,” Mrs Hudson stood up after the second knock, as Sherlock still hadn’t moved, muttering “not your butler either” under her breath.

Sherlock let her go, taking the opportunity to snaffle a fourth mince pie in her absence.

Mrs Hudson opened the front door to DI Lestrade, harassed as ever.

“Is he in Mrs H? Only he’s not answering his phone.”

“Come in Inspector, he’s in my kitchen. It seems he’s fallen out with the telephone today.”

“Actually I’m glad I caught you, how is he, apart from ignoring the phone?”

“Morose, uncommunicative and taking all the joy out of Christmas.”

“Much as usual then.”

“I would say so, why do you ask?”

“Only that there was a bit of an incident with one of my officers yesterday.”

Sherlock chose that moment to come out into the hall. “If you’re here to gossip about me with my landlady I shall return to my own flat and let you do so without the inconvenience of whispering.”

“Ignore him Inspector; he’s desperate for something to do. Come in and have a cup of tea, you look like you could do with one.”

The two men followed Mrs Hudson back into her kitchen.

“I do indeed, Mrs Hudson. Got a body in a hotel in Bayswater, discovered in the cleaners’ cupboard early this morning, not a lot to go on,” Lestrade replied, addressing the final comment to Sherlock.

“Doesn’t sound very interesting so far, Gavin, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Lestrade sat down and accepted the cup of tea.

“Thing is, the key to this particular cupboard went missing years ago, no one bothered to do anything about liberating a couple of mops and a few toilet rolls. The cleaner, Juanita’s her name, been there years, just used to take her supplies from the cupboard on the next floor and over time everyone forgot about it.”

“And I take it the body is fresh?”

“No more than a couple of days, according to the path guy although we’ll need a proper examination. Just starting to stink, that’s why it was investigated.”

“Sex game gone wrong!”

“Possibly, but that still doesn’t explain how she got there, nothing on the CCTV and the lock was completely rusted up, the hotel maintenance had to force the door with a jemmy.”

Mrs Hudson could hardly contain her excitement, “Ooo Sherlock, you’ve got your wish, a locked room murder.”

“What’s this?”

Sherlock gave a spectacular eye roll but Mrs Hudson carried on anyway. “Sherlock was just helping me stir my Christmas puddings and didn’t know what to wish for so I suggested a locked room murder, and here you are. That’s the fastest I’ve ever known a wish come true. Just wait till I tell Marie next door.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, took one look at Sherlock’s face, thought better of it and hastily finished his tea.

Sherlock brief considered the inspector’s case “All right, mildly interesting, give me the address, I’ll meet you there.”

“The Bluebird Hotel, Bayswater Road.”

Lestrade got up to leave, but Mrs Hudson caught him by the arm.

“I’m thinking of having a little get together on one evening before Christmas, just a few of us. You’d be very welcome.”

“That would be a pleasure Mrs H, thank you. Providing I’m not on duty.”

“Not that it would make any difference to the London crime rate if you were.”

“Pay no attention to Sherlock, Inspector; he got out of bed the wrong side this morning. I’ll make sure I pick an evening you are free. You can’t leave me to entertain with Scrooge on my own.”

Lestrade laughed and Sherlock took that as his cue to leave to fetch his coat.

“Thanks Mrs Hudson” Lestrade hesitated then added, “Would you mind if I brought someone?”

“Not at all, Inspector, the more the merrier.”


	4. Lights

Sherlock, when he arrived at the hotel, was far more interested in the cupboard than the corpse. He took a perfunctory inspection of the girl’s body which confirmed what he had already surmised that she was a sex worker who had died or been killed during an act for which she was being paid.

Juanita who turned out not to be from Spain or even Argentina but was instead born and bred in the East End and travelled daily into work no further than from Leytonstone. Disappointed not to have a chance to exercise his excellent Spanish, Sherlock proceeded to interrogate the cleaner on the subject of the missing key.

Juanita who for thirty five years had dealt with all manner of unpleasantness cleaning a hotel that had seen better days was more than a match for a jumped up consulting detective. After all, he wasn’t even a proper policeman.

“Four and half years ago.” She replied promptly to Sherlock’s question about when she’d noticed the cupboard key was missing.

Sherlock scoffed a little, “You seem very sure?”

“I am sure. It happened while I was on leave in the summer, I wouldn’t usually take time off in the high season, but my daughter had a baby and I had a week off to help her. My grandson was four in June. It was when I came back to work afterwards that I found the key was missing.”

“And did you report it?”

“Oh I reported it until I was blue in the face but nothing was done about it, and eventually I just got used to keeping everything in the cupboard in the basement, this isn’t a large hotel. I load up my trolley and bring everything up in the lift.”

Sherlock remembered slightly late to thank the woman and went back to examining what was left of the cupboard door, complaining loudly to anyone in his vicinity of the mess that had been made of it when it was forced.

“Well you can’t blame my lot this time,” Lestrade answered, “It was the hotel’s own maintenance that broke it open.”

Sherlock huffed in reply and fixed his magnifier on the mechanism of the lock.

“Look Sherlock, we need to move the victim…if you’ve finished that is?”

Sherlock waved a hand in the inspector’s general direction, “yes, yes she can go, she’s nothing more to tell us.”

Lestrade sighed and signalled to the undertaker and the forensics assistants who were ready to collect the body.

After they had finished and Lestrade had his paperwork signed he came back to where Sherlock was still crouching by the door. “Got anything for me?”

Sherlock stood, stretched and rotated his neck with a satisfying pop. “Plenty Gilbert, but I’d like to have a look at the CCTV next.”

“No can do, the CCTV’s a nonstarter, too dark to make anything out. The nerds are working on it now but they’re not optimistic. There was activity in this corridor two days ago but they’ve only shadows to go on.”

“Interesting, are all the floors like that?”

“I’m not sure… ok, ok I’ll send someone to find out.” Lestrade beckoned one of the uniformed officers that was stationed at the end of the corridor and instructed her to make some phone calls.

“Go on then, spill…”

Sherlock didn’t need to be asked twice.

“The cleaner states this cupboard has been inaccessible since the key went missing four and half years ago, and I am satisfied that she believes she is telling the truth. However the lock is an 80mm 5 Lever Mortice Deadlock manufactured in Birmingham by Patterson and Cooper Ltd locksmiths since 1779. Disregarding the fact that this is a very substantial lock to use to secure an insignificant internal door there is also the issue that the manufacturers only became Patterson and Cooper when the companies, R. D. Patterson & Sons and Cooper’s Imperial Metals merged three years ago, and as they only started using their new brand logo on their stock at the beginning of this year, I would suggest that the lock has been changed at some point in the last eleven months.”

“Seriously?” Lestrade looked dubious. “But the lock was all blocked up with rust.”

“That’s where our criminal made their first mistake. This lock is high quality brass, which while it will corrode if exposed over time to water or some other corrosive substance… won’t rust.”

Lestrade pointed to the lock in question “well, you’re not telling me that that’s not rust.”

“I’m telling you it gives the appearance of rust. It is iron oxide mixed with some form of methyl or ethyl 2-cyanoacrylate, that’s super glue to you, and smeared extensively in and around the keyhole. Most maintenance operatives would have access to some old piece of kit they could garner sufficient flakes of rust from.”

“So the maintenance guy did it?”

“Placed the body in the cupboard certainly, although he probably wasn’t with her when she died, that’s more likely to be some cabinet minister, or banker, or pop star who was her punter for the night. She died in one of the bedrooms on this floor, of course now cleaned to perfection by the redoubtable Juanita but your goons should still be able to find some proof if they try hard enough.”

Lestrade ignored the insult to his team, and turned to the uniformed officer who walking towards them, still on a call.

“They’ve had a quick look at the tape for the night in question but for the floor above, Sir, and it’s as clear as day. Apparently the lights in the corridors are motion sensitive which means they are activated when the doors open or people start move about, irrespective of the time. The CCTV's not that sophisticated, it's no good in the dark.”

Sherlock turned to Lestrade with a triumphant look.

“So Inspector, I suggest you start by questioning whoever was in the building two days ago and had access to the control panel for the lights.”


	5. Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A detour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched the montage at the end of The Final Problem last night to try to work out some kind of timeline for this fic - it is impossible so please accept this approximation of the course of events.
> 
> Also over the past couple of years I have read a number of post Series Four fic plus written a couple, please forgive me if I inadvertently copy someone else's ideas. All I can say if I do it is because they were so convincing they have become canon

Case or no case, on the first Thursday of each month Sherlock rose early, dressed and waited outside on the pavement for the car to take him to the London helicopter terminal in Battersea to make the surprisingly short flight to Sherringford.

Anthea had done her utmost to dissuade Sherlock from this course of action but after the third month she had desisted and the car arrived without comment. Sherlock assumed that his brother arranged it, but he didn’t ask.

Sherlock cradled his violin carefully as the helicopter came into land. After working his way through his solo repertoire, he had decided to try a duet and had been assiduously practicing Shostakovich’s five pieces. He had no idea if this would provoke a response from Eurus, nothing had so far, but she was more than capable of taking the lead, should she rise to the challenge.

On starting to play the Shostakovich again, Sherlock had recalled that he had learnt the piece before; at the age of about eight or nine he had been chosen to play it in his school concert. The other violinist had been a boy in the year above him although not as tall as Sherlock, a competent player and they had matched each other well. As they had been thrown together for rehearsals Sherlock had begun to tentatively wonder if he might achieve that elusive status of a friend. Then, just before the concert started, the boy _(Mick? Nick? The name eluded him)_ had turned to Sherlock and pointing to a man in the crowded foyer whispered urgently in his ear “go on, do that thing you do, on him”.

Sherlock with his newly discovered aptitude for deduction had gladly shown off what he could glean about the forty-something merchant banker from Tunbridge Wells with a category three golf handicap and Border terrier. At some point during the stream of deductions the boy _(Nick? Mick?)_ had burst into tears and run from the room. Sherlock, uncertain whether to follow him or to tell one of the masters, had hung around behind the scenes growing increasingly anxious as their place in the programme approached. But the boy had not returned and in the end Sherlock had gone on stage and played a rather bowdlerised version of the first movement of Vivaldi’s Autumn although only the accompanist and two sets of parents noticed.

Sherlock had assumed that the boy had suffered a bad bout of stage fright, and the reason he had never spoken to Sherlock again was his embarrassment. Looking back now though, Sherlock wondered if it might have been something to do with his comment about the man’s relationship with his daughter’s nanny.

The concert represented Sherlock’s last venture into the world of duets on and off stage, from that day on Sherlock was a confirmed soloist, in life as well as music.

The Shostakovich might not have the happiest of associations, Sherlock reflected, but it was sweet and lively and just might do something to ease the oppressive silence that always greeted him when he visited his sister, the East Wind.


	6. Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventure of the Dancing Men - the consultation.

The email contained an attachment of a child’s drawing and notification that unless he heard differently the sender would be with Sherlock by eleven the next morning.

Frankly, Sherlock didn’t think it sounded all that promising but he was always rather antsy the day after a visit to Sherringford and happy with anything that would occupy his mind, however briefly. So Sherlock made the effort to ready the flat for his visitor, including printing out the attachment, and putting the client’s chair in place.

Richard Hilton-Cubitt turned out to be a handsome man of around forty-five who reminded Sherlock somewhat of Mycroft, but despite that seemed likeable enough. He was as tall as Sherlock but built more sturdily as a man used to working on the land. However it was clear from his clothes and his accent that he was no horny handed son of the soil, rather a gentleman who farmed his own estate, and while his speech and mannerisms could hardly be described as effete there was something about them which revealed his sexuality.

Sherlock continued his assessment and noted that his visitor wore a signet ring on the little finger of his right hand, and a plain gold band on the ring finger of his left. Sherlock could tell without closer inspection that the signet ring was Victorian, most likely a family heirloom whereas the wedding ring was probably less than a year old.

The visitor went straight to the point, “Well Mr. Holmes, what do you make of that?”, indicating the printed out photograph that Sherlock had left in full view on the desk

“It is curious, though I am more curious as to why you would think to send it to me; it appears to be nothing of more significance than a child’s drawing of stick figures.”

“I thought so too, in fact when I saw the first set I thought that Maggie… she helps out in the dairy… I thought one of her grandchildren had done it when they were bored.”

“First set?”

“Yes, they were drawn in chalk on the window ledge at the back of the house, I asked Maggie and she washed them off.”

“You didn’t photograph them?”

“I didn’t think to, like you said, I didn’t see any significance.”

“But something has changed?”

“Yes… badly changed.”

Sherlock indicated the client’s chair.

“Do sit down. You were not always Mr. Hilton-Cubitt I believe; you added your husband’s name to your own upon your marriage.”

The man smiled and said, “You live up to your reputation Mr. Holmes, yes, I was born Richard Cubitt and my husband, Patrick Hilton.”

“Tell me as much as you can about the two of you”

“I’m not much of a storyteller Mr. Holmes, The Cubitts are an old family, and I inherited the remains of an estate in Norfolk, but there’s no title, little money and nothing much left in the way of family so I can pretty much please myself in what I do. Having said that, I never expected to marry, not because I was gay but when I was growing up it wasn't even legal. Plus, I live in a village in Norfolk, I work a seven day week on the farm, and there never seemed the opportunity to meet someone.

“Then last year I had a bad winter, pleurisy and one chest infection after another. I got checked out, nothing sinister but the quack put it down to too much work and not enough play; he signed me off for a month and suggested a holiday somewhere warm if I could manage it. So I left the estate in the hands of my agent and went off to the south of France. It was there I met the man who is now my husband. I liked him the moment I met him, and before the month was up I was as much in love as a man could be. Of course, I thought he was way out of my league, but it turned out he felt the same about me. He came back to Norfolk with me and we were married as soon as it could be arranged.

“I knew what some folk were thinking, that he was after my money, or a passport. I didn’t mention did I, he’s American, brought up in Arkansas, but Patrick is a novelist, quite a good one. Not wealthy but able to support himself.

“He had a past, but what gay man in his thirties doesn’t have? He was quite up front about that. I remember his words – Richard, he said, I have had some very disagreeable associations in my life; I wish to forget all about them. I would rather never allude to the past, as it is very painful. If you marry me, you will marry a man who has nothing that he need be personally ashamed of; but you will have to be content with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent as to all that passed up to the time we met. If these conditions are too hard, then I will go back to France and the lonely life in which you found me – It was the very day before our wedding that he said those words to me. I told him that I was content to marry him on his own terms, and I have been as good as my word.

“So we have been married now just coming up to a year, and I can honestly say I have never been happier. But about a month ago Patrick received a letter from America. I saw the American stamp, we get so few actual letters these days, everything is electronic. Well, he turned deadly white, read the letter, and threw it into the ﬁre. He hasn’t mentioned it since and neither have I, I’m a man of my word and a promise is a promise; but he hasn’t known a moment’s peace since then. It’s like a cloud has entered his sky, and he’s waiting for the storm to burst. I so wish he would trust me, he would find me his best friend, but until he speaks I can do nothing.”

“You believe the drawings are in some way connected with this?”

“I only mentioned the first set to Patrick a while after they appeared. To my surprise he took it very seriously, and begged me if any more came to let him see them, well I thought maybe he had an idea for a novel. None did come for a week, and then yesterday morning I found that paper I sent you in the photograph lying on the sun-dial in the garden. I showed it to Patrick and he almost fainted, since then he’s been walking around like a man afraid of his own shadow. It was that made me decide to contact you, Mr Holmes. It was not a thing that I could take to the police; they would laugh in my face, but please tell me you’ll take the case.”

“You are sure you cannot ask your husband outright?”

“A promise is a promise.”

Quite a few minutes passed in silence before Sherlock spoke again.

“A few supplementary questions if I may. Your residence is isolated I take it?”

“Yes, we’re pretty much off the beaten track, only the three farm cottages in the immediate vicinity.”

“And is it just you and your husband in the house?”

“No, the agent and his wife, who acts as our housekeeper, Mr and Mrs King, live in, although they have their own quarters. It is an arrangement that dates from my father’s time.”

“Tell me, do you get many strangers in the neighbourhood?”

“The nearest village is very small, more of a hamlet really; we all know each other well. I believe one or two of the houses do AirBNB but I couldn’t say for sure.”

Sherlock paused thoughtfully again.

“Finally, do you own a gun?”

The visitor smiled again “I’m a farmer; we have a couple of shotguns and an air rifle. But yes, I have a handgun, all licenced.”

“Very well I will investigate but I cannot offer you a quick solution. These symbols evidently have a meaning. If it is a purely arbitrary one it may be impossible for me to solve it. If, on the other hand, it is systematic, like semaphore for example I have no doubt that I shall get to the bottom of it. But this sample is insufficient, I need more data. I suggest that you return to Norfolk, that you keep a keen look-out, and that should any fresh dancing men appear, take a photograph and email it to me immediately. Be assured if there are any pressing fresh developments I am quite prepared to come up to Norfolk and see you there.”

The transformation in Richard Hilton-Cubitt was instantaneous and in Sherlock’s opinion more than a little alarming. Gone was the serious and concerned Norfolk farmer as he grabbed Sherlock into a bear hug while shaking the detective’s hand vigorously.

“Mr Holmes, you don’t know how relieved I am to hear you say that. You’re an angel, that’s what you are, an angel in disguise.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to give his usual reply – but that reminded him too much of the old Sherlock. If his client thought he was an angel, then he would be an angel.


	7. Ashes and Soot

After Hilton-Cubitt had left, Sherlock changed back into his pyjamas, put on his second best dressing gown and took up a horizontal position on his couch to spend a couple of hours in his mind palace.

He went first to the library and the modern American literature section which turned out to be empty apart from a mis-shelved copy of _The Murders in the Rue Morgue_ by Edgar Allen Poe. John would have been useful here; fiction was much more his department. Sherlock quickly abandoned that area of enquiry, and went instead upstairs to the cypher room.

As Hilton-Cubitt had not suggested that his husband’s first language was anything other than English (although as an American that could be up for debate), Sherlock thought it safe to assume that to decode the cypher which he was certain it was, he should also start with English.

The most common letter in English usage was E, followed by T and then A. Then roughly in succession I O N S R H, there was some debate he recalled about the order between I and O, and D and L should be in the list somewhere, but E was the best place to start. The difficulty was the message only comprised of fifteen stick men; it was too small a sample to reach any definite solutions. The most common word in the English language was _the_ , but that could easily be read as _she_ or _tie_ or even a name such as _Tim_ or _Tom_.

He glared at his mind palace image of the stick men, there just wasn’t enough data.

In the background, Sherlock heard his phone beep, that would be Lestrade confirming that the girl in the cleaning cupboard had died of asphyxiation. Sherlock wondered if they had brought the night porter in for questioning yet, and wished he cared. The phone beeped again, there was no point trying to ignore it, it had drawn him out of his mind palace for the time being.

Sherlock opened his eyes and was momentarily disorientated; he felt queasy, not unlike standing on shore again after a long time at sea. It was the sensation he experienced every time he saw his sitting room after a period of absence.

The room was almost but not quite restored to the way it had been before the incident with the motion-triggered grenade. It had caught the brunt of the explosion and most of the interior had been destroyed either by fire or water. His chair had been salvageable as had been, somewhat randomly, the bison’s head. But the tables, soft furnishings, the couch and what he still liked to think of as ‘John’s Chair’ had all needed to be replaced.

The wallpaper however was the same, John had been peculiarly insistent on that even going as far as tracking down some company in Somerset that specialised in the manufacture of one-off reproductions for film sets and the National Trust. Sherlock had even begun to wonder if John was being so particular because he intended to move back into 221b but once the first floor renovations were completed, he had gone back to his job at the clinic, part-time, and Sherlock had hardly seen him since.

The result was a rough approximation of his previous home, as if put together by someone who had only read a description and never seen the original. That was the problem, Sherlock thought sadly as he reached for his phone, perhaps it would have been better to make a clean break rather than trying to recreate something that could never be restored.

It was no surprise, Sherlock supposed, that John would choose not to spend time under the same roof as the man who murdered his wife, and whose escapades had once again nearly got him killed. The flat may be habitable once more, but that didn’t mean he had his old life back. That was all so much soot and ashes, ashes and soot.


	8. Warm Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity at the Watsons

Rosie’s low grade grizzling which had been going on for most of the day reached a crescendo of crying by the time they got home from the park. He’d taken her out in the pushchair in the hope that she might drop off to sleep, instead all he’d achieved was to make her cold and wet as well as miserable.

As a doctor John was satisfied with his diagnosis of the cause of Rosie’s unhappiness, the two bright red patches high on her cheek and the hard line of her gum on the upper left side heralded the arrival of another tooth. He had Calpol and teething gel, he could cope.

As a parent he was at his wits’ end.

_It wasn’t meant to be like this_ John thought as he wrestled the rigid and uncooperative Rosie out of her coat and into her high chair. He needed to try to get her to eat something or she would wake up hungry at midnight and he would never get her back to sleep. Finally he got her sat at the table with a carrot stick to chew on while he heated up the rice. At least the whingeing had stopped for a bit.

They had been carried away the day of the wedding, him and Mary, high on endorphins (and adrenaline too, after the incident with James Sholto), they’d never even talked about whether they wanted children, yet there they were, not two become one but two become three. Trust a doctor and a nurse to slip up like that, and Sherlock to guess before either of them. Of course once they knew they had a baby on the way, there was no going back, and he’d been delighted, well most of the time.

John hadn’t thought much about the implications, he’d gathered he would be expected to do his share of night feeds and dirty nappies, but he also knew he was never going to be the primary care giver; they would never be able to afford the mortgage on Mary’s salary. Or perhaps they might have, who knew what she had squirrelled away from her previous occupation?

It was still a shock to him that he had been so greatly deceived by her, that he hadn’t had a clue until that night in Leinster Gardens and even then it had taken a while to sink in. He had been so angry, still was deep down, but he was never going to be the man who abandoned the mother of his child; so instead she went and abandoned him.

Where did that leave him, he wasn’t cut out for single parenthood, hell he wasn’t entirely sure he was cut out for any kind of parenthood. _I didn’t sign up for this._ This… the endless daily grind of work, and commuting and child care and the terrifying knowledge that you are all this little person has got. _It’s you and me against the world now, kid!_

He could do with a scotch…

Except he didn’t do that anymore, just like he didn’t cheat on his wife, neglect his daughter and abuse his best friend. Funny, it was Sherlock’s psychotic sister who had finally called time on the drinking. He’d gone home after one of their sessions and poured ever last drop of alcohol down the sink. He’s stuck to it too, apart from the one time. But then when you have witnessed half a dozen needless deaths and faced your own watery demise then perhaps you can be allowed a temporary lapse, but from now on it was nothing stronger than tea.

John left Rosie spreading baby rice into the tray of the high chair, her clothes and her hair, and went to put the kettle on. He assumed that some of it would find its way into her mouth. She seemed a little happier now that the carrot stick and the teething gel were working their magic. He wondered if things might get a bit easier once she really started talking and could actually tell him what was wrong.

It wouldn’t be long, Rosie’s vocabulary increased daily, there was the _dadada_ sound which he knew meant him and _bububub_ was bubbles her favourite toy, _moo-moo_ which although wasn’t very flattering was Rosie’s usual response to the sight of Molly. But then there was the _n-n-n-n_ which was much in evidence this evening and John had the worrying suspicion was going to turn into a fully formed _NO_ before too long.

From what he could tell she’d managed a fair amount of the rice and the carrot, her juice cup was empty too, quite an achievement for one not very happy little girl. Though he’d need to put a load on to wash before the night was out, and write a note for the child minder about the teething, once she’d gone down for the night, but firstly to get madam into a warm bath.


	9. Festive

Following Mary’s death, Dr John Watson took three months’ compassionate leave during which time he drank heavily, conversed repeatedly with the spectre of his dead wife, palmed off his daughter to people who were practically strangers providing they were prepared to look after her and assaulted his best friend so severely it resulted in internal bleeding and near kidney failure. He also assisted in the conviction of possibly Britain’s most prolific serial killer, the head count wasn’t complete, and spent an appalling thirty-six hours on a security island that no-one had ever heard of with a Holmes that no-one admitted existed.

At the end of this time, Dr Watson parted company with the practice where both he and Mary had worked and took a part time position as a general practitioner at a clinic further away from home but more convenient for his child minder. The clinic was a large one to the extent that he hardly knew all the staff let alone building up a report with the patients.

However Sam, the receptionist, petite, brunette and an ultra-extrovert had made her business to get to know John. She lived in one of the many social housing developments in the area and was on her own with her son, Ronan, after Ronan’s dad a good for nothing called Wayne had had left them both before his son was born. Sam was not above sharing her opinion of Wayne’s latest failings as a father with any member of staff who happened to be passing, without realising how much pain this could inflict on a certain doctor who was highly conscious of his own limitations in that area. Ronan was now three years old and John had had a couple of long and deeply satisfying discussions with Sam about the cost of child care and the difficulty in finding a reliable minder.

In a previous life this would have been a precursor to John chatting Sam up and eventually asking her for a drink with the objective of getting her into bed.

Not anymore.

The problem was that Sam was Mother Christmas. She’s started on about it the moment she came back to work from her holidays and her enthusiasm for the season was unabated. She’d had her tree up at home since the First of November and had bought and wrapped all her presents weeks ago. The difficulty with having peaked so soon, she had nothing left to look forward to besides pestering the other staff, the patients and anyone who stepped into her line of fire about their Christmas arrangements.

Sam was like Santa’s little helper on speed, her conversation, even in passing was littered with references to Christmas from ‘done all your shopping yet?’ to ‘written your cards?’ Even Nargis, the other morning receptionist at the practice, had to graciously point out that she didn’t really celebrate Christmas, and that she was unlikely to take advantage of Tesco’s two for one offer on ‘pigs in blankets’.

Sam was responsible for the surgery waiting area being festooned with trimmings, and the Christmas muzak that was driving everyone demented and now she was encroaching on John’s consulting room. “Just a little bit of tinsel to put round your monitor”, she said as she breezed in, “and I can give you a choice between a glow in the dark Santa or a Rudolph for your windowsill, just to make it a little more Christmassy, I’m sorry Dr Maddison has already snapped up the elf on the shelf.”

John really couldn’t be bothered with any of it but after all his protestations failed, he gave in and played the widower card.

Sam was not to be deterred, she made what John hoped she thought was a sympathetic face but was frankly quite scary then bounced back with the “But you should make an effort Dr Watson, for your little girl’s sake.”

“Should I?” John replied, “She’s not even one yet.”

“Oh they’re never too young to enjoy Christmas, my Ronan loves it. What did you do last year?”

John couldn’t help smiling to himself. He was tempted to reply _Last Christmas I watched as my best friend and former flatmate shot dead a prominent newspaper proprietor in order to protect my assassin wife._

Almost reluctantly he decided against it and settled for a half-truth instead, “I was with friends.”

“Well, there’s your answer, get yourself invited to your friends again, I’m sure they’d be glad to have you.”

_Friends. Not exactly how you would describe Mycroft Holmes, although his parents were lovely. The Christmas before that had been great though, Sherlock back from the dead, him newly engaged to Mary, Molly happy with the Sherlock clone. Mrs Hudson stuffing them full of mince pies and eggnog and bemoaning the fact that she couldn’t find the antlers because surely Sherlock could have been persuaded to wear them this year after all he had put them through. Even Greg had been happy, despite the fact his divorce had only been finalised the week before. Yes that had been a good Christmas._

Sam placed the Rudolph on the windowsill behind John, “there looks better already”. John thought it easier just to agree.

“Just listen to me”, Sam went on, “Don’t spend your time at home moping, find somewhere to go this Christmas.”

 _Was that an invite?_ John wasn’t sure, _he hoped not_.

“I’ll think about it, Sam, but the truth is I’m not really feeling all that festive”.


	10. Once a Year

The next day started well in Sherlock’s opinion but went steadily downhill from then on. The good start came in the form of an email from Richard Hilton-Cubitt with an attachment of a photograph of another set of stick men. The email contained a description of the exact circumstances of the discovery, something to do with chalk on a black barn door; Sherlock skimmed the details before dismissing them as irrelevant. Despite its initial promise the new photograph was rather a let-down but Sherlock printed it out anyway to compare with its predecessor.

The first message had contained fifteen figures but this only represented ten different letters, if letters was what they were, and he couldn’t see what else they could be. Side by side, Sherlock could see that while the second message contained a further nine figures, it duplicated all but three of the first set. It was most frustrating as his twenty-four stick men only represented twelve individual letters, less than half the alphabet.

On the plus side there were six of one kind which by rights should represent E, and four of another which should in theory be T, or possibly A, but the frequency of letters could be thrown out by irregularities such as proper nouns; and what were those little boxes about? Sherlock scowled at the print outs of the two photographs, despite the second message, he still didn’t have enough data.

He could do with something to work out his ideas on, Sherlock decided. He briefly contemplated the wall, it used to make an excellent notice board, but he wasn’t quite brave enough to risk damaging its new plaster and pristine wallpaper. He’d never hear the last of it of John ever found out.

Didn’t he used to have a whiteboard of some kind? He supposed that it was yet something else of his past that had not survived the explosion. He turned back to his laptop, quickly googled chalk boards, and having found what he wanted, turned on ‘one click’ shopping. Problem solved.

Sherlock’s phone pinged, that would be Lestrade, maybe the Met had finally got their act together and tracked down the missing night porter. He checked the message, threw his phone onto the couch in the approximation of a strop and walked over to the window. Drawing aside the curtain he looked down at the street below where a black saloon car was parked with its engine ticking over and Mycroft’s driver at the wheel.

_Oh hell, was that today?_

There was no point trying to get out of it, the car would sit there idling and blocking up the traffic for as long as it took him to concede defeat. Sherlock reluctantly put his socks and shoes, slipped out of his dressing gown and into his jacket, coat and scarf, pausing only to retrieve his phone before going downstairs.

He knocked on the door of 221A and called out to Mrs Hudson. “I’m expecting a parcel; if the person who delivers it won’t take it upstairs leave it in the hallway. Don’t try to lift it yourself.”

“I won’t”, Mrs Hudson said opening the door, “Oh Sherlock you do look nice. Here take this with you”, she added, handing him a card, “save me a stamp.”

The best thing about a car sent by Mycroft was that his driver knew every short cut in London and the journey always gave Sherlock the opportunity to refresh his memory of some of the less familiar byways.

However this morning Sherlock had other things on his mind. The truth was that he hadn’t seen that much of Mycroft since the events of Sherringford. Ironically for someone who had dedicated much of his adult life to avoiding his older brother it now appeared that Mycroft was avoiding him.

Sherlock supposed that for Mycroft, the utter failure to contain their sister while keeping Sherlock, his parents, the government and the rest of the country in the dark, it was as if his legs had been kicked from underneath him leaving him sprawling in an undignified heap on the ground.

He hadn’t seen Mycroft since the day Mummy had verbally eviscerated her eldest son, completing his humiliation by calling Sherlock the ‘grown up’ while his father had sat, damp eyed, silently agreeing with everything she said. And now they were supposed to play happy families at lunch together before the parents went off to America for Christmas.

 _Still_ Sherlock thought as he got out of the car outside the Diogenes Club, clutching Mrs Hudson’s Christmas card, _at least it was only once a year_.


	11. Chimney

> From: Richard@Hilton-Cubitts.co.uk
> 
> To: Enquiries@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
> 
> Re: Further Incident
> 
> Dear Mr Holmes,
> 
> Please find attached a photograph of a further incident of the ‘dancing men’ which as you can see was again drawn in chalk on the barn door. I am concerned that whoever is responsible for this continues to have free rein to trespass on my property. I hope that your investigation is progressing and trust that this further sample will be of assistance to you.
> 
> Kind regards
> 
> R Hilton-Cubitt

The context of the discovery contributed nothing to the case except to confirm that the originator must at least be temporarily resident in the area, so Sherlock quickly opened the attachment. It contained a further nine stick men and he was pleased to see that three of these were new. This meant he could now presume that he had fifteen letters which, particularly if you also excluded Q and Z, was nearly two thirds of the alphabet.

The blackboard and easel had been delivered the previous afternoon, so Sherlock set it up and soon had it covered it with his own drawings of the figures. There were now nine repetitions of the most common character so he decided to take a gambol and mark it as E, and started to play around with the next most frequent as to whether it was T or A. He had already decided that the figures holding little flags did not indicate different letters but having first thought they might represent punctuation, was now thinking they might simply mark the end of separate words.

It was frustratingly slow progress, and there was something he was sure he was missing but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was almost a relief when his phone rang.

It was Lestrade. “They’ve apprehended the night porter; they’re bringing him now if you’re up for a chat.”

Sherlock looked that his drawings on the blackboard. They weren’t going anywhere and a change of scene might give him a fresh perspective when he got back.

“I am.”

“Good. Out of interest, how’s your Telugu?”

“Passable.”

“That was meant as a joke.”

“I can’t comprehends why that would be a source of mirth; it is after all the fifteenth most commonly spoken language in the world.”

“Well… Never mind, life’s too short. Apparently the guy is claiming he doesn’t speak English.”

“I suspect that is highly unlikely seeing that he’s been dealing with hotel customers for the past five years. Get him processed and I’ll be with you in an hour. Black, two sugars.”

Lestrade made an exasperated noise and rang off.

Sherlock took a last look at the blackboard and went to get dressed.

******

The night porter’s command of English had had a sudden resurgence after Sherlock had informed him, in his own language, that the police were less likely to concern themselves with his immigration status if he sounded as if he was born and brought up in Tooting.

He had admitted to enabling some of the encounters between the ‘girls’ and in some cases ‘boys’ and their clients, while running a lucrative side line in recreational drugs and flavoured condoms. He had also confessed that he occasionally switched off the automatic corridor lights to facilitate these activities but he had no idea how the body of one of them had come to be in his store cupboard and after two hours neither Lestrade nor Sherlock could break his story.

“Let him sweat”, Sherlock advised the uniformed officer who was on guard, "we’ll be back down shortly". Sherlock and Lestrade made their way to the Yard canteen where Sherlock went to sit at a table while Lestrade fetched their drinks.

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock what was off with the messages, if they were meant for Patrick Hilton-Cubitt, then surely one of the words must be his name. But the only seven letter word repeated one of the characters, and the name Patrick had no repetitions. Was he ever known as Pat or may be Paddy? He made a mental note to find out.

A cup of coffee was placed in front of him; bringing Sherlock out of his reverie.

“He’s covering for someone.”

“Obviously.”

“Who do you think?”

“Like I said originally Gordon, someone who can make it worth his while which means someone with money and a lot to lose, footballer, pop singer, politician…”

“Not a politician.”

Sherlock looked at the inspector suspiciously, “You seem very certain, what makes you so sure?”

Lestrade shrugged, “Just a deduction.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Since when do you have deductions, the best you can do is hunches and then usually they are wrong. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Of course not, since when have I managed to keep anything from you.”

Sherlock squinted at the inspector again, “You’ve been practising!”

“Don’t talk wet, anyway change of subject. What are you up to for Christmas?”

Sherlock groaned, “it’s bad enough with Mrs Hudson decking the halls; I don’t need you to start.”

“Okay, I just wondered, what with your mum and dad off to the States.”

Sherlock’s suspicious look got stronger. “Who told you that, and why this sudden interest in my family?”

“Calm down. It may have escaped your notice but your family or at least one member of it has kept me and my division rather busy for the last few months. Just after some background. John’s already warned me not to ask about the Christmas dinners.”

Sherlock shuddered dramatically but Lestrade pressed on. “But it couldn’t have all been bad, there must have been some good things, you in your reindeer antlers, Mycroft playing Santa Claus.”

“Enough lets go and see if Mr Medidhi has decided to talk”. Sherlock drank down his coffee in one go and stood up, nose ever so slightly in the air, “besides, Mycroft could never have played Santa, he would have got stuck in the chimney.”


	12. Bah Humbug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter as very busy day today and I want to get ahead for three longer chapters coming up

“No thank you.” Mycroft was polite but firm.

The caller ignored his negative response and carried on speaking, until Mycroft, unused to being ignored was forced to elucidate “I’m afraid I must decline your kind offer.”

Undeterred, the caller continued, in the most persuasive of tones, but one did not become the British Government without the ability to resist persuasion. “Let me assure you, that won’t be necessary.”

The caller took the argument up a level.

Mycroft decided that politeness could take a hike. “I refuse to be coerced into making a decision at this time.”

This elicited protests but Mycroft was unmoved. “Certainly not.”

More protests, his caller was obviously not in a conciliatory mood. Mycroft was forced to state his position again. “Governments have fallen for less.”

A slight pause at the other end of the line, Mycroft relaxed a fraction.

Prematurely as it happened, the caller replied again, at length, and with a hint of menace causing Mycroft to expostulate. “What you are suggesting is tantamount to blackmail!”

This was greeted with a chuckle, and another silence.

There was only one thing for it, Mycroft, the master strategist stalled. “Might I suggest that we take this up at a later date?”

Another pause, another false reprieve, it appeared negotiations were no longer on the table.

Mycroft caved. The caller rang off still laughing.

Mycroft replaced the handset into the telephone cradle of his private, private line and sighed.

_What was it Ebenezer said? “Christmas, Bah Humbug!”_


	13. Family

Fridays John generally finished at the surgery at noon and collected Rosie early from the child minder before going back to his soulless flat in the suburbs and getting on with the jobs that awaited him there. But for some reason today he found he couldn’t face another afternoon of washing and cleaning with only Rosie for company so instead of turning for home, he crossed the road and headed off in the direction of the underground.

Thirty minutes later John was manoeuvring the pushchair up the steps of Baker Street station on his way to Regent’s Park, except it was a rather damp and miserable day to spend outside and it didn’t take much to turn Rosie grumpy. Thinking better of it he made a left on the Marylebone Road towards Baker Street.

“What do you say, Rosie? Shall we go and visit Uncle Sherlock?”

Rosie, significantly happier now she was the proud owner of a new tooth, babbled enthusiastically, “bubububub!”

“Yes,” John answered patiently. “Bubbles can come too.”

******

It always struck John as bizarre to knock on the door of 221, as it often was, the front door was on the latch but it never felt quite right to enter uninvited so he waited on the step until the door opened and he was greeted by Mrs Hudson’s excited squeal.

“Oh John, and Rosie too, how lovely. Come in do.” she added, hip forgotten, as she stooped to pluck Rosie from her pushchair so John could fold it up. “I’m afraid you’ve just missed Sherlock, he went out in a tizz about half an hour ago… I’ll put the kettle on and you can tell me everything you’ve been up to while you wait for him.”

Dutifully John followed his former landlady into 221a where he and Rosie allowed themselves to be fed and fused over. John entertained with trivia from the practice while Rosie behaved beautifully engaging Mrs Hudson in a long discussion which included nearly all her infant vocal sounds until she suddenly flopped asleep in the way that very young children do.

John got up to take his sleeping daughter from her and together they made a nest on one of the arm chairs surrounded by cushions to allow Rosie to nap in safety.

Mrs Hudson, made more tea and as it grew darker, drew the curtains and lit the fire. It was very cosy and John began to feel dozy himself. This was probably why Mrs Hudson’s next line of questioning caught him unawares.

“So how are things really John?”

“Well… you know.”

“I really don’t John, that’s why I am asking.”

Mrs Hudson was the other person that John could never hide anything from.

“Sometimes it’s good; sometimes it’s bad, sometimes it is fucking awful and sometimes all three at the same time. It is what it is.”

Mrs Hudson nodded, that sounded familiar. “John dear… why don’t you come home?”

John had a sudden sensation that he might cry, ridiculous, but he never coped with kindness well. “It’s good of you to offer,” he said finally, “But I don’t think I would be very welcome.”

Mrs Hudson went to speak but John put up his hand, “And I don’t think it would be very practical.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mrs Hudson, just think, 221b, Sherlock and a small child, it’s a recipe for disaster.”

“He’s made a lot of changes.”

“I know, I was there and I really appreciate what he did about the furniture.”

"I think you should go upstairs… Go on, I’ll watch Rosie, go up and take a look at the second floor.”

Reluctantly John went up the seventeen stairs to the first floor; he paused momentarily outside the closed door to flat B before taking the next flight to the landing where his old room was situated.

John had always known that the floor plan of the house in Baker Street was way bigger than just his room but had never given it much thought; these old houses were full of idiosyncrasies. He assumed there was some kind of loft space the other side of the partition wall but the technicalities of it had been none of his business.

Now the transformation of the second floor stunned him, instead of just one door on the landing there were two. He instinctively opened the door to his old room. At first glance it appeared no different; it was still more or less the same size, although it looked bigger, probably due to the new decoration and blinds. Then he noticed the biggest change, on the far wall there was another door.

John went to investigate, the door opened onto a compact but completely functional bathroom. John was amazed and privately regretted not having had the facility when he had lived at Baker Street.

The bathroom although not large was also blessed with two doors, and John pulled the second one open expecting to find an airing cupboard. What he found instead took his breath away and again he found tears threatening to fall, for behind the door was a perfect child’s bedroom, decked out in mint and cream and neatly furnished with a cot, a little chest of drawers and a night stand. Round the walls ran a frieze of Noah's Ark.

John took a moment to compose himself, running his hands across the fresh paintwork and the cotton mattress. It was lovely, so much nicer than Rosie’s bedroom at home which he had started before Sherlock was shot and never finished.

Once he was certain that he could face Mrs Hudson without making a fool of himself John closed the door on the nursery and went back downstairs.

Rosie had woken while he was absent but seemed happy enough to bounce on Mrs Hudson’s knee while gumming on a banana.

“When?”

“The explosion rocked the joists, the partition was unsound, the whole thing had to come down, and while it was down it seemed silly not to do the place up properly.”

“How?”

“Paul, you know next door, Mrs Turner’s Paul, he did the plans and Mark did the interior decorating. Sherlock wanted a pirate theme but we overruled him. We compromised on Noah’s Ark as not too girly. You can imagine what himself had to say about that”

“But it must have cost a fortune.”

“It’s an investment John… I can’t spend all of Frank’s money on flash cars.”

Rosie n-n-n-n-ned in agreement between mouthfuls of banana.

“I’m sorry Mrs Hudson, you’ve gone to so much trouble, but I can’t live here again. I can’t live like we used to live, running here and there, surviving on takeaways, eating on the hoof, never holding down a steady job, risking everything on a daily basis. I have responsibilities now, I have someone who depends on me entirely, I’m all she’s got.”

“John, Listen to me, I have a sister I speak to once a month on the phone, you have a sister you meet to argue with twice a year and as for Sherlock…”

“Enough said, Mrs Hudson, I get the point”

“What I mean is this, maybe Rosie doesn’t have much in the way of relatives, but that doesn’t mean you are alone, that you have to do this alone. Because you have me and Sherlock, and Molly and that nice Inspector, and loath as I am to say it even Mycroft. You have family."


	14. Not a Creature was Stirring

It was late when Sherlock got home from the Yard and 221 was in darkness. Despite intensive questioning the night porter still refused to reveal who had been with the girl (Kelly Ann Whitaker, 17) at the time she had died and there were frustratingly few leads. Why TV cop shows got away with basing so many discoveries on CCTV he didn’t know. In the end Lestrade had called it a day and charged the man with various drug offences, perverting the course of justice and preventing the lawful and decent burial of a body, remanded him in custody and gone home to bed. Sherlock had also gone home although sleep was the last thing on his mind.

Flicking on the hall light to see the stairs Sherlock spotted two parallel tyre tracks on the tiles, slightly smudged, a Silver Cross Avia Stroller… John!

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was glad or sad that he had missed John’s visit, on balance he decided it was for the best although John’s knowledge of American fiction might have come in handy with the Hilton-Cubitt case.

Once in his flat, Sherlock changed and made himself a cup of tea and got to work on deciphering the stick figures. Having concluded the most frequent figure was an E the first message looked like this

??/?E?E/??E/????E?

But then he was also convinced that if the messages were meant for Patrick Hilton his name would appear at least once. Patrick was out, the seven letter word in the second message had a repetition but the three letter word in the first message could be Pat. T was a common enough letter to overtake E in some cases.

P?/?T?T/PAT/?P??T?

But that would mean the message started with a two letter word beginning with P. “Pa, Pe, Pi, Po,” Sherlock muttered to himself, sounding even to his own ears faintly ridiculous. The three letter word couldn’t be Pat; he went back to his original conclusion that the figure must represent an E.

Sherlock spent another unprofitable hour or two working on various permutations of the letters and was pretty certain that the second most frequent figure was an A, or possibly a T. He gave up and lay down on the couch. The couch was new, long and wide and ideal for thinking and occasionally sleeping, so Sherlock did both.

******

The phone woke him at seven the next morning. He didn’t recognise the number but sensed it was urgent, and answered it to the voice of Richard Hilton-Cubitt.

“I’m sorry to call you so early but here’s been another incident Mr Holmes; a message was left under a pebble upon the sun-dial, I found it yesterday morning. I’ve emailed the photograph to you but you’ll see the characters are exactly the same as the last one.”

“Something else has happened.”

“Last night I was determined to find out who was doing this so I decided to lie in wait. I got out my revolver and I sat up in my study, it looks out on the lawn and garden. About two this morning I was seated by the window, it was pitch dark apart from the moon, when I heard steps behind me, and there was Patrick. He implored me to come to bed. I told him frankly that I wished to see who was behind these messages.

“He tried to fob it off as some senseless practical joke, and said that I should not take any notice of it. He even suggested that if it really annoyed me we should go away for a while. But I won’t be driven out of my own home and anyway I can’t leave the farm.

“Then suddenly, as he was speaking his face turned white and his hand gripped my shoulder. Something was moving in the shadow of the barn. I saw a dark, creeping ﬁgure which crawled round the corner and squatted in front of the door. Grabbing my pistol I started out, but Patrick threw his arms round me and held me with all his strength. I tried to throw him off, but he clung to me almost desperately. At last I got clear, but by the time I had opened the door and reached the barn the creature was gone. It was the very person I was looking for though because the same drawing of dancing men which I had seen twice already was on the barn door. There was no sign of the man anywhere, though I ran all over the grounds. And yet the amazing thing is that he must have been there all the time, because when I examined the door again just now he had scrawled some more of his pictures under the line which I had already seen.”

“Have you sent the fresh drawing?”

“Yes; it is very short, but I took a photograph and have emailed it to you.”

“Wait a moment…” Sherlock reached for his laptop. “Let me open the attachment and I’ll call you straight back”

A couple of minutes later Sherlock was back on the phone to Hilton-Cubitt, the photograph open on his laptop in front of him.

“Tell me, was this a mere addition to the ﬁrst, or did it appear to be entirely separate?”

“It was on a different panel of the door.”

“Excellent! This is far the most important of all for our purpose. It gives me hope. Now, Mr Hilton-Cubitt, please continue your most interesting story.”

“I have nothing more to say, Mr Holmes, except that I was angry with my husband for having held me back when I might have caught the rascal. He said that he feared that I might come to harm. For an instant it crossed my mind that perhaps what Patrick really feared was that the intruder might come to harm, for I have no doubts that he knows who this man is and what he means by these strange signs. But there is a tone in my husband’s voice, Mr Holmes, and a look in his eyes which forbid doubt, and I am sure that it was indeed my own safety that was in his mind. There’s the whole case, and now I want your advice as to what I ought to do.

“I’m tempted to hire a couple of lads from the village to hide in the shrubbery, and when this fellow comes again to give him such a hiding that he will leave us in peace for the future, although I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“I’m afraid taking the law into your own hands might well backfire. Is it impossible for you and your husband to get away for a few days?”

Sherlock was certain there was something going on at the Hilton-Cubitts much more sinister than a mere childish prank. He didn’t want to alarm the man unnecessarily, but privately thought Patrick’s suggestion to travel a good one.

However Richard Hilton-Cubitt was adamant that he couldn’t leave the farm.

“Very well, I will continue to work on the messages I think it is very likely that I will be able to contact you shortly to throw some light upon your case.”

******

While Sherlock spent the day thinking, getting on Mrs Hudson’s nerves, playing the violin, and losing his temper with the English language and the blackboard, John was busy at home.

Always an early riser, the combination of army and medical training and a lively eleven month old meant that Saturday mornings were as active as any other day. He’d loaded the washing machine, and vacuumed the whole flat while waiting for his Tesco delivery. Once this had arrived and been put away he decided to treat himself to a second breakfast at the market café.

Bundling Rosie into her pushchair, it was a truly miserable day; he spent a pleasant hour and a half over breakfast and the newspaper while Rosie made a satisfactory mess of her porridge and apple sauce.

Leaving the café John pushed Rosie’s stroller through the market crowds, it seemed every stall was laden with Christmas paraphernalia from trees to wreaths to poinsettias and all stops in between. He felt a twinge of guilt; perhaps he should do something for Rosie. She certainly seemed much taken with the sparkling lights.

Reaching the end of the market, he crossed the road to the hardware superstore. Seeing the work that had been done on Baker Street had made him feel ashamed that he had done so little to his own home. Rosie’s room in particular still had a bare walls where he had stripped the paper but never got round to redecorating. That was something he could do over Christmas.

The superstore was another Christmas nightmare, with every piece of seasonal tat that you could imagine. The store’s address system announced that Santa and his reindeer were in the store today and John thought Rosie might enjoy a look.

The reindeer were cute, a lot smaller than John had realised, their compact little bodies made them very appealing and both he and Rosie thought they were marvellous. Not so Father Christmas who Rosie took one look at and screamed the place down.

They retreated to the wallpaper section, but it was no good, Rosie was tired and upset, and he too found himself comparing everything to the perfect little room in Baker Street.

The problem was, John reflected as he walked home in the dark, was that he didn’t want to make a home out of his flat. To do that would be to admit defeat that he had settled for a life in the suburbs. Once home, he fed Rosie and played with her for a while before bath time and bed. He cleaned up the detritus of the day, more washing, where did it all come from?

_I cannot live like this._

The thought wouldn’t go away. He had to do something, make a change, break the mould before he went stark staring mad. Then an idea came to him, tomorrow, he would pack a bag for Rosie, enough to keep her clean and fed and occupied and they would spend the day at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had said he was always welcome, he would take her up on that and if Sherlock was there that would be a bonus. Mrs Hudson had said he had a case on, perhaps he could help.

John went to the window and looked out on the empty street. It would be great to be back in the beating heart of the city with its noise and bustle and away from this quiet cul de sac of a life, where even at eight o’clock in the evening, not a creature was stirring.


	15. Midnight

It never ceased to amaze John the sheer volume of baggage a small child required to spend a day away from home. In the end he packed three of everything plus a dozen nappies and her toiletries. As well as Bubble he also put in her toy telephone, the music box and a couple of picture books that she enjoyed sucking on even though she couldn’t read. Then he added some jars of food, her dish and cutlery, sippy cups, formula and juice. Finally he slipped in a change of clothes for himself, just in case Rosie or Sherlock had an accident and his own wash things and popped the baby monitor and his phone charger in on top and he was ready.

Deciding he would never cope with everything on the tube, he ordered a taxi and text Mrs Hudson to say they were on their way.

Mrs Hudson seemed as delighted to see them as she had been on Friday, fussing over Rosie who was equally delighted with the attention. They went first into 221a where Mrs Hudson had the kettle boiled and scones fresh out of the oven.

“I’ve phoned Mrs Evans from my book club, her husband’s going to pop round after church with a high chair, they look after their grandson twice a week, and she doesn’t mind me borrowing it. And I have something else here,” Mrs Hudson produced a wooden walker complete with building bricks, “I was going to give it to Rosie for Christmas but as you’re here now…”

Slightly overcome yet again, John stumbled out his thanks.

“It’s nothing John; I’m just so pleased you’re here.”

The sound of their chatter, or possibly the sound of the kettle had drawn Sherlock from his lair. He appeared in the kitchen, just as the tea was poured.

“John… good to see you, and you too Watson.”

John felt uncomfortable, and started to apologise for the lack of contact but Sherlock shut him up, unconsciously echoing Mrs Hudson, “Well you are here now.”

“Mrs H says you have a case on?”

“I do, quite an interesting one in fact, possibly even a seven. You might care to take a look.”

John agreed that he might, and when Mrs Hudson announced she was going to make jam tarts with Rosie’s help the two men went upstairs.

As they climbed the stairs to 221b Sherlock briefly described the matter of the Hilton-Cubitt case leaving John quite intrigued. Once in the flat he examined the photos of the dancing men that Sherlock had received and his own versions of them on the blackboard.

“Patrick Hilton? Why would I know that name?”

“He’s American,” Sherlock was dismissive, “writes novels.”

“That’s it, I think I might have read a couple,” John sounded excited. “Secret agents, spies, that sort of thing, similar vein as James Bond.”

Sherlock looked blank.

“James Bond… 007… we watched the films together… when I lived here,” John enlarged but the blankness continued. “Never mind you probably deleted them once they were finished.”

Sherlock suspected he might have deleted them earlier than that but said nothing, not when everything was going so well.

John continued “I suppose you have googled him, he’s probably got a website, or if not I expect his publisher will have a page, or Amazon, or Wikipedia.”

Sherlock reluctantly confessed that he had not done anything as mundane as to google Patrick so John busied himself at the laptop while Sherlock turned his attention back to the conundrum of the figures on the black board.

“Here he is, Patrick Hilton, born Edmund Patrick Hilton, 12th November…”

“What?”

“Born 12th November.”

“No before that.”

“Born Edmund Patrick Hilton.”

“Edmund. No still too long."

"Could be shortened, Ed, or Eddie."

Sherlock swung round to look at John. "Eddie that’s it, this word here must be Eddie, and these two characters D and I.”

He sprang over to the blackboard and began work on the third message.

“This must be an instruction, something Eddie; it can’t be WAIT because it ends in E so it must be…”

“COME!” John replied.

“Exactly so, and this five letter word below, which I believe to have been written by Patrick himself is his reply. Something E, Something E, Something. Of course, it is NEVER!”

Sherlock stood back from the board, “I am certain that first letter must be A, so that gives us E D I A C O M N V and R, more than enough to crack the code.”

Sherlock threw himself into an intricate and elaborate calculation for the next two hours. John came and went; Mrs Hudson made him a sandwich while Rosie played with a rather grey piece of pastry. He showed Mrs Hudson how to use the monitor as Rosie went for a nap for the first time in the cot in the little bedroom on the second floor. As he passed the open door of 221b John heard Sherlock muttering to himself, it sounded as if progress was being made but twenty minutes later when John took him a cup of tea, Sherlock was lying motionless on the couch with a puzzled look, a furrowed brow and a vacant eye.

When Rosie woke from her nap Mrs Hudson and John wrapped her up and took her out for a brief walk, it was cold and none of them would benefit from being out to long.

Mrs Hudson ventured to ask John if he was having a good day.

“I am,” John conceded, “I forgotten how good he is to be with when he’s on form.”

They laughed and headed back to Baker Street in time to find Sherlock complaining that his tea was cold.

There had been considerable progress in the translation of the code during their absence. The messages on the blackboard now read.

AM/HERE/A?E/?ARVE?

A?/E?RI?E?

COME/EDDIE

NEVER

“I am fairly confident that the first word of the second message is AT but it could possibly be AS. The second word is almost certainly a proper noun and could be anything. Likewise the last incomplete word of the initial message.”

John went over to the blackboard for a closer look, “I see what you mean, but the only name I can think of is Harvey and you already have the H in HERE.”

Sherlock joined him and together they mulled over the symbols, “No, I am sure the H is correct but it could be Garvey.”

“Brilliant!” John didn’t contain his praise. “But that leaves the third word.”

“Yes, that has puzzled me, plenty of letters will fit L, P and W for starters but none of them make sense.”

Mentally John started to run through the alphabet stopping almost immediately at B, “ABE! It’s a short form of Abraham, as in Lincoln. You know, American…”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted him, “I haven’t deleted Lincoln. I think you may be right.” He pointed to the laptop, “See if you can find anyone by the name Abraham or Abe Garvey, living in the state of Arkansas.”

John got to work and before long he looked up from the screen and said, “Well I have one but I think he is unlikely to be our man.”

“Why so?”

“Well according to this website he is conducting a mission weekend at a church in Little Rock, and right now,” John looked at his watch, it was nearly five, “Right now he should be just getting into the pulpit to preach his sermon. Hold on there are some photographs, of the mission team…”

John turned the laptop so Sherlock could see the picture of grey haired man in his early sixties captioned as Rev. Abraham Garvey. “There’s a link to his church website,”

John clicked on the link and was quiet as he browsed through its pages.

“Looks like it’s one of those churches.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to ask what he meant and John went on, “That’s interesting,” John had clicked back to the Wikipedia page on Patrick Hilton, “According to this Erasmus Hilton, is an elder in this church, that’s got to be Patrick’s dad.”

John browsed a few more pages, “There’s a biography piece on the website about Abraham Garvey,” He read it aloud for Sherlock’s benefit. “Abraham Garvey, trained… ordained… married to Ruth, four children Lois, Leah, Lydia and Abraham Junior, known as Abe.. Says here that Abe is an assistant pastor at the same church specialising… oh holy moly… in the ex-gay ministry.”

“Abe Garvey,” Sherlock announced with a great deal of satisfaction, “That’s our man.”

Mrs Hudson had conjured up a Sunday dinner from nowhere, and now that Sherlock considered the case to be virtually solved he was once again prepared to eat. They kept the conversation light and Sherlock’s only reference to the case was to say, “I think I will take a trip to Norfolk tomorrow and present the news to the Hilton-Cubitts in person. It is a pity John that you can’t come with me; your contribution has been invaluable.”

John thought that googling a couple of names didn’t merit any compliments but he accepted the meaning behind Sherlock’s words. He had been missed.

“Actually I’m only due in for a couple of hours tomorrow, I could probably arrange cover, but I wouldn’t want to take Rosie all that way.”

Mrs Hudson immediately offered to keep Rosie and while this led to a slight discussion about not imposing it was soon settled. Rosie and John would stay the night at Baker Street and he and Sherlock would head off to Norfolk in the morning. Mrs Hudson offered to bathe Rosie while John made up the bed. With Rosie down for the night and the baby monitor in place, John found an old film on the TV to watch while Sherlock filled in him with a few details of the Bayswater Hotel case. It was warm and peaceful and John was filled with an old contentment, even Sherlock started to relax. So they both jumped when Sherlock’s phone and laptop beeped simultaneously signalling the arrival of an email. It was from Richard Hilton-Cubitt.

> From: Richard@Hilton-Cubitts.co.uk
> 
> To: Enquiries@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
> 
> Re: New message
> 
> Dear Mr Holmes,
> 
> Patrick and I have been away from home today visiting friends in Norwich. We got back about half an hour ago and I took a constitutional around the garden checking the outhouses and barn as I usually do when I discovered the attached drawing again hidden under the pedestal of the sundial. I have not shown this to Patrick as I have no wish to upset him further. I would be grateful for any update on the progress of your investigations you are able to give.
> 
> Kind regards
> 
> R Hilton-Cubitt

Sherlock immediately downloaded the attachment, it was a longer message, twenty-five characters in all, but his success with the previous messages meant that he soon had most of it translated. He looked up from the paper on his desk, and John could see the anxiety in his face.

“What is it?”

“See for yourself,” Sherlock replied, handing a paper to John.

EDDIE/?RE?ARE/?O/MEE?/YO?R/GOD

“This won’t wait for tomorrow. We need to get to the Hilton-Cubitts as quickly as possible. Is there a train to North Walsham to-night?”

John turned to the National Rail app on his phone and entered the details.

“There’s a train to Norwich from Liverpool Street at eleven-thirty tonight which if we left now we could probably catch, the problem is that there’s no connection to take us to North Walsham until five-thirty tomorrow morning. We would need to hire a car once we got there, and I’m not sure how practical that would be at one-thirty in the morning otherwise we end up hanging around the station for four hours in the middle of the night. If we are going to have to hire a car it would make sense to hire one here and drive the whole way. It shouldn’t take more than” John consulted his phone again “three hours at the most, this time on a Sunday night.”

“Perhaps less in a really fast car.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I would imagine so.”

“She’d never let us.”

“She did before.”

“That was a matter of life or death.”

“This is a matter of life or death.”

“Yes, but that was your life or death”

“Well you ask her, you’re her favourite.”

“No you are.”

“We could steal the keys; they’re in a pot on the mantelpiece.”

“You wouldn’t dare. Ok we’ll both ask her.”

Mrs Hudson was persuade that that nice Mr Hilton-Cubitt was in danger and handed over the keys to the Aston Martin, but they then had to move the cot and the sleeping Rosie into 221a for the night which delayed them further and led John to reflect on how much their lives had changed.

So by the time Sherlock pulled the Aston out of the mews at the back of Baker Street heading for the A 501 the clock of St Cyprian’s was striking midnight.


	16. Baby Please Come Home

If it hadn’t been for the urgency of their mission John might have enjoyed the journey to Norfolk. Sherlock, when he put his mind to it, was an excellent driver, and it went without saying that the car was a dream, and Mrs Hudson had stored an eclectic selection of music to help to both pass the time and keep them awake. Even the sat nav was more than up to the job of negotiating the Norfolk B roads, accommodating a detour caused by localised flooding; still it was after three in the morning when they turned into the driveway of Ridling Thorpe Manor.

“Damn, we’re too late,” Sherlock said as they pulled up in front of the house.

John saw immediately what he meant; it seemed as if every light in the house was on, shining out onto the two panda cars already parked outside. As they got out of the car, the uniformed officer who had been posted by the front door came over to speak to them.

“Can I help you?”

“Who’s in charge here,” Sherlock demanded.

“DI Martin from Norwich is on his way Sir, we are expecting him shortly.”

“Can you tell us what happened?”

The officer hesitated so Sherlock continued, “Will it help you know that my name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and associate Dr John Watson, Richard Hilton-Cubitt was a client of mine and we have travelled here tonight in the hope of preventing what I suspect has occurred.”

The officer apparently recognised the names as he visibly relaxed and became quite confidential. “It’s a terrible business, murder suicide, it appears that the American husband shot Mr Cubitt and then turned the gun on himself, at least that’s what the Kings say. Richard Cubitt’s dead and the husband’s life is despaired of. They took him to Norwich a few minutes ago in the air ambulance.”

At that moment an unmarked police car arrived and a dapper little man, with a quick, alert manner and a neat moustache got out along with two SOCOs. A van pulled up behind them. The Inspector approached Sherlock, John and the uniformed officer at speed, not doubt in a hurry to discover what civilians were doing contaminating his crime scene. He was noticeably astonished when the officer introduced Sherlock and John.

“Why, Mr Holmes, the crime was only committed at one thirty this morning. How could you hear of it in London and get here as quickly as I could from Norwich?”

Sherlock explained again about the client, and his suspicions.

“Then you must have evidence pertinent to the events.”

“The only evidence I can offer you is the evidence of the dancing men,” Sherlock admitted, “I will explain the matter to you later. Meanwhile, since it is too late to prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should use the knowledge which I possess in order to ensure that justice be done. Will you allow us into your investigation, or will you prefer that we should act independently?”

Fortunately the Inspector was a fan of Sherlock’s but had never worked with him before. “It is highly irregular but I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr Holmes,” he replied earnestly.

“In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to examine the premises without an instant of unnecessary delay.”

Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow Sherlock a free hand, and contented himself with carefully noting the results. Another uniformed officer had spoken at length with one of the paramedics and she reported that while Patrick Hilton-Cubitt’s injuries were serious, they had no idea if they would prove fatal. The bullet had passed through the front of his brain, but the fact it had not killed him outright meant there was still hope. On the question of whether he had been shot or had shot himself the paramedic wouldn’t say. Certainly it appeared that the bullet had been discharged at very close quarters. There was only the one pistol found in the room, two barrels of which had been emptied. Richard Hilton-Cubitt had been shot through the heart. It was equally conceivable that he had shot Patrick and then himself, or that Patrick had been the instigator, as the revolver lay upon the ﬂoor midway between them.

Sherlock turned to the uniformed officer and asked, “Who phoned it in?”

“Mr King, he’s the land agent, he and his wife have an apartment within the house. They’re with a support officer in the kitchen I believe.”

“Then if it is possible we should hear their story at once.”

The Kings were a sensible looking couple probably in their early sixties, visibly shaken but desperate to do their bit to help the police. They told their story clearly enough. They had been aroused from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had been followed a minute later by a second one. They had come downstairs together and seen that the study door was open. Richard lay face down in the centre of the room, and they could tell immediately he was dead. Patrick had been crouching near the window; head leaning against the wall, horribly wounded, the side of his face was red with blood, breathing but incapable of speech.

Mr King was certain that he had smelt nitro-glycerine in the hall, as well as the study. The window had been shut and fastened both Mr and Mrs King were positive about that. Mr King had dialled 999 while Mrs King had tried to help Patrick. They were both stunned by the night’s events, so far as they knew there had never been any quarrel between the couple. They had considered Richard and Patrick to be very much in love.

DI Martin asked them about the security of the house, Mrs King said she had locked the kitchen door as usual about ten; the two men had been out for the day but had locked and bolted the front door before they turned in for the night about eleven. There was no sign of a break in. John confirmed this fitted in with the time of the email that had sent them post haste to Norfolk.

The study was a small room, containing books, a desk and the body of Richard Hilton-Cubitt stretched out on the floor dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown. At Sherlock’s signal, John knelt to examine him, the bullet had been ﬁred at him from the front, and had remained in his body after penetrating the heart. John concluded that while violent, death had certainly been instantaneous.

Meanwhile Sherlock did a quick reconnaissance of the room.

“The paramedic stated the bullet that hit Patrick was still lodged in the brain.”

The uniformed officer replied “Yes, no exit wound, they’ll operate to remove it when they consider him stable enough for the procedure, if he makes it that is. But there are still four cartridges in the revolver. Two have been ﬁred and two wounds inﬂicted, so that’s both bullets accounted for.”

“So it would seem,” Sherlock agreed. “Perhaps you can account also for the bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the window?” He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin ﬁnger was pointing to a hole which had been drilled right through the frame about an inch from the top.

“Gracious,” cried the inspector. “How ever did you see that?”

“Because I looked for it.”

“You’re right!” the uniformed officer agreed, “So a third shot was ﬁred, and therefore a third person must have been here. But who could it have been and how could they have got away?”

“That is the problem which we are now about to solve,” Sherlock replied. “You remember, Inspector Martin, when the Kings said that they could smell gunpowder quite strongly in the hallway as well as the study.”

“Yes”

“It suggested to me that at the time of the ﬁring the window as well as the door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes would not have blown so rapidly through the house. A draught in the room was necessary for that. Both door and window were only open for a very short time, however.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the carpet isn’t wet. It’s a windy, rainy night, the windowsill has a pool of water on it and the curtains are damp but if the window had been open for any length of time the rain would have soaked the carpet beneath.”

“Excellent!” John could tell the inspector was impressed.

Sherlock continued, “Once I was sure that the window had been open at the time of the tragedy I was certain that there must have been a third person present, someone who stood outside the window and ﬁred through it. Any shot directed at this person might hit the frame. I looked, and there, sure enough, was the bullet mark!”

“But how did the window come to be shut and fastened?”

“I don’t know why but I think Patrick did it. I’d like if possible to speak to Mr and Mrs King again.”

Sherlock, John, the Inspector and the other officers returned to the kitchen.

“Mr and Mrs King, you said that you were awakened by a loud explosion. When you said that, did you mean that it seemed to you to be louder than the second one?”

Mrs King answered first, “Well, Mr Holmes, I was quite sound asleep so it is hard to judge. But it did seem very loud.”

“Mr King” Sherlock questioned the agent “You handle guns in your line of business. Do you think that it might have been two shots ﬁred almost at the same instant?”

“Now you mention I, it might well have been,” The agent seemed pleased with his contribution.

Sherlock turned to the Inspector, “Once it is light we will see what evidence the garden has to offer but I am sure with the amount of rain we have had there will be ample signs that someone was outside the study window when the incident occurred.”

Inspector Martin perked up, “And do you have an idea who that someone might be?”

“I’ll go into that later. But next I need to know is there any pub or hotel in the area known as ‘Elriges’ or possibly Ekriges or something similar?”

Mr King looked at his wife and then at Sherlock. “The only Elrige I know of around here is Joe Elrige who farms over by East Ruston, that’s about fifteen miles away.”

“Is it an isolated farm? Do you think there is any likelihood they would have heard what has happened here, or been aware of the air ambulance?”

“Very isolated, Mr Holmes and I don’t think it likely they would have heard the helicopter as it lies in the opposite direction to Norwich”

“Would you be able to take a note to the farm?”

Mr King looked at the Inspector for permission, who granted it with a nod, “If it helps to discover what happened to Master Richard I would take it to the ends of the earth.”

“Good man,” Sherlock replied, taking from his pocket the collection of notes and drawings, both his own and those that had been sent to him by Richard Hilton-Cubitt. Asking for a pen and some paper he sat down at the kitchen table and worked for some time until finally he gave the completed note to Mr King saying that it was to be handed only to Mr Abraham Garvey who he believed would be found at Elirige’s Farm.

“Before you go, is there anywhere around this place where the police vehicles might be parked out of sight?”

Mr King said there was and under his direction a constable went off to move the cars. Once this was accomplished Mr King set off, although it was only just gone five, saying that like all farmers the Elriges were early risers and would be up and about once he got there.

The support officer made tea and toast for everyone and persuaded Mrs King to go and lie down. The SOCOs continued their examination of the premises while DI Martin was itching to know what Sherlock had put in the note, he had seen quite plainly it contained no words, and Sherlock was just as eager to show off his brilliance.

Sherlock outlined the case for the Inspector, from the first visit from Richard Hilton-Cubitt to the last email that had brought him and John to Norfolk. He explained his methods of analysing the dancing men symbols and how his knowledge of the behaviour of English vocabulary had allowed him, by a process of elimination, to decode the messages. “Of course, I was delayed by the fact I was not aware that Patrick Hilton had a different first name, Dr Watson’s discovery was key to solving the whole mystery.”

John demurred, but Sherlock went on, “My unforgiveable error was not to realise the extent of the danger the Hilton-Cubitts were in. I deduced that Abe Garvey was a stalker; someone from Patrick’s past playing a nasty game, but had no idea it could escalate so quickly. Even when I saw the final note, I thought it was just to put the wind up Patrick. Damn it! I knew that Richard had access to a gun, I just never thought he would use it.”

“He would never have shot to kill,” Mrs King had come back into the kitchen, “I couldn’t rest,” she said apologetically to the support officer before turning to the others, “I have known Richard all his life, he might have fired a warning shot, or even clipped the man to disarm him, but he would never have killed him in cold blood.”

“I know, Mrs King,” Sherlock said gently, “That’s why the bullet hit the window frame.”

The silence that followed was disturbed by the entrance of one of the SOCOs. “What is it Jenkins?” the inspector asked.

“Found this Sir, tucked inside a book on the bedside table, on what we think was Patrick’s side. Not sure what to make of it thought you might want to take a look.”

She held out a piece of paper, that had obviously been folded in her gloved hand but the inspector didn’t take it. Instead he motioned her to show it to Sherlock. Even from a distance John could see line of dancing men were different from the others so far.

Sherlock studied it quickly and seemed to grasp its meaning without difficulty.

“This I believe is the message Patrick received by post, in the letter Richard thought he saw thrown on the fire. The whole sorry love triangle that has destroyed the lives of three men”

“What does it say?” John said impatiently.

“Here,” Sherlock pushed his papers towards his friend, “You have the key, work it out for yourself. I’m going outside.”

[](https://imgur.com/L4ihB74)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may be able to deduce the message of the dancing men if you have been following this fic closely, if not the key is available on a number of websites


	17. Wonder

Sherlock saw lights in the lane before he heard the car and made his way back inside. On his instruction all but the porch lights were dimmed, and only he, John, DI Martin and another plain clothes officer were in the hall, the door was left deliberately ajar. It was still before sunrise but with the faint light of the moon they could clearly see when the car arrived at the front of the house.

“I think, my friends,” Sherlock whispered, “that we had better take up our position behind the door. He isn’t expecting us, but he was armed before and every precaution is necessary. Be ready with your handcuffs, inspector. You can leave the talking to me.”

It seemed a long minute until the footsteps approached the front door and rang the bell. They waited scarcely daring to breathe until the door slowly opened and a man stepped in. In an instant the PCO had him in an arm lock and DI Martin slipped the handcuffs round his wrists, while John flicked on the lights. It was all done so swiftly and deftly that Garvey was helpless before he knew what was happening. He glared and protested, “What is the meaning of this, I am here on legitimate business, in response to a letter from Eddie Hilton.”

At this, Sherlock stepped into the ring, “Mr Hilton-Cubitt has been seriously injured and is at death’s door.”

The man gave a hoarse cry of grief which rang through the house. “You’re crazy!” he cried, ﬁercely. “It was the Englishman that was hurt, not him. What has happened to Eddie?"

“He was found badly wounded by the side of his dead husband.” Sherlock answered.

Abe Garvey sank to his knees with a deep groan and bowed his head as if in prayer. For ﬁve minutes he was silent. Sherlock looked at the inspector and then at Garvey, “Shall we take this somewhere more suitable, and perhaps Inspector you should at least read him his rights.”

Garvey raised his face once more, stumbling as best he could to his feet, then spoke with the cold composure of despair. “I have nothing to hide from you, officers,” he said. “If I shot the man then it was in self-defence and you won’t pin a first degree charge on me for that. But if you think I could have hurt Eddie then you don’t know either me or him. I tell you there was never a man in this world loved another more than I loved him. We were as David and Jonathan.”

Sherlock led the way back to the now deserted kitchen, and the five men sat round the large farmhouse table. In the brighter light, John could see that Abe Garvey was a handsome, clean cut kind of man in his early thirties who reminded him of the Mormon missionaries that had always seemed to wake him by knocking his door when he was on night rotation as a junior doctor. John tried not to let that influence his opinion of the man.

Garvey went on, “Who was this Englishman that he should come between us? He led poor Eddie astray, making this mockery of a marriage. He should never have entered into such an ungodly union.”

Sherlock had had time for the numerous deductions that had been swirling around his head since Abe Garvey’s arrival to settle; now they came into play as he addressed the American. “You might indeed have loved each other very much but Eddie Hilton left America because he had to get away from you and the sordid closeted life you imposed on him. He chose to make a clean break and his marriage was result of that, not the cause.

“But for some reason you couldn’t let him go, and you cannot fool me that it was concern for his immortal soul that caused you to trace him here and to make his life a misery, jeopardising and ultimately destroying the happiness he had found with a man whom he loved and respected. Bringing about the death of that noble man and driving the man you claimed to love to suicide. That’s what you will have to answer for.”

“You’re lying,” Garvey spat out, “If Eddie is hurt so bad, how come he managed to send me a note?”

“I wrote that note,” Sherlock replied, “I wrote it in the one way you would be unable to resist responding to, in the secret code you and Eddie invented when you were children. Am I not right?”

“I don’t know how you know that but yes we devised it when we were boys, working on it instead of doing our lessons in Sunday school, but no one other than us two ever knew how to use it. It drove my sisters wild not knowing what the figures stood for.”

“What one can invent another can discover,” Sherlock replied with a hint of his old arrogance. “Mr Garvey, whatever you say about your part in this night’s events cannot change the fact that a man has died and another is fighting for his life. The police are going to formally arrest you and take to Norwich to be charged. Once you are there anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. If there is anything that might help us to understand what happened here tonight you may want to share it now before you are under caution.”

Garvey looked at John, the two police officers and finally at Sherlock and then something broke inside and the words spilled out.

“It wasn’t the easiest of upbringings for boys like me and Eddie, though I’d say he had it easier, he’s youngest of seven, four older brothers and two sisters, there wasn’t the same kind of pressure as there was on me. But I have three older sisters and there were no more babies after I came along, I had to be the son my father could be proud of, someone to follow in his footsteps, not an abomination.

“When I said Eddie and me were as close as brothers that’s no exaggeration, in fact I’d say we was closer as Eddie’s brothers used to fight like cat and dog, and we never did. There’s less than six months between us, our fathers were the closest of friends, our families used to vacation together, we grew up in each other’s houses. It were only natural that we would be the best of friends... only there weren’t anything natural in mine and Eddie’s friendship… not in the end.

“We kept it hidden, it just wasn’t done in our town, but we had each other. Did folk guess? I couldn’t tell you. As it happens we didn’t see that much of each other, different colleges. I was busy with the church, Eddie with his writing. But then suddenly we were thirty and all the guys we knew at school were getting married and having kids, and I thought if folk aren’t talking they will be before long. Eddie was teaching at the local junior school, and I’d been called to an associate pastorship at my dad’s church and I just knew that people would sure enough start asking why the two of us were still on our own. Then Eddie got a book deal, and he started to get dissatisfied, he wanted to go off and see the world and he wanted me to go with him, but I couldn’t could I cause then folk would really have talked.

“And then I made the biggest mistake ever, I told Eddie that I wanted to get married, it must have been the way I said it, because he was made up, hugging me and kissing and saying he was so happy and then I had to tell him, tell him I meant to a girl but that it needn’t change anything that we could still be together and maybe he would find a nice obliging girl and we would be ok.

“We had an almighty row, he said he was sick of living a lie, and he went straight up and came right out to his folks.

“Then of course, I had to act disgusted and get married pretty darn quick I can tell you. But I missed him, my Eddie and I wanted him to come back to me, so that it could be like before. I knew I could pull the wool over my wife’s eyes, even more so if Eddie had gotten himself married to a nice girl. But I couldn’t tell him that because I didn’t even know where he was, and I couldn’t go asking round without making folk suspicious, so I was stymied. Then the next thing I knew folk were commiserating with Mr and Mrs Hilton because Eddie had gone and gotten married all legal like to a man, an Englishman at that.

“I couldn’t let it rest, I couldn’t settle, I had to come over here and save him from himself. I might have threatened him, God forgive me, but I would never have touched a hair of his head. Take it back—you! Say that he is not hurt!”

Sherlock looked over to John who answered the man “Tragically it is true.”

John’s words seemed to strike home. Abe bowed his head and was silent for a full five minutes before was able to speak again.

“After Eddie came out to his folks he went to New York, like I said he had some money from a book he’d sold and these people wanted him to write some more. The Hiltons didn’t cut him off but I guess they didn’t talk that much about him either, not to me anyways. It wasn’t until he’d gotten wed that I was able to pin down even what continent he was on. I wrote to him but got no answer. Then I had a chance to come over, for a conference and I told my wife I’d take a bit of a tour before coming back. I found a room at Elrige’s on the net, I could see it was close enough by to use as a base to get near to Eddie; so I got in touch, I left the messages where he could read them. I just thought if I could speak to him, could remind him of the bond we had between us then he would come home with me, instead he begged me to go away and leave them in peace.”

“How did you come by the weapon?”

“It’s Elrige’s, don’t blame him for it, I couldn’t never have got my hands on it if I hadn’t been staying in the house.

“I’ve lived with guns all my life, alongside people who will shoot a stranger dead if they set an uninvited foot in their yard. Once I saw that Eddie’s so called husband had a weapon I had to find a way to get one too. I got talking to old Elrige about his guns yester afternoon, and saw where he kept his keys.

“Two days ago there was a note from Eddie left for me at Elrige’s, saying to come at one this morning while the husband was asleep and he would meet me at the end window, which I did. It wasn’t what I expected, Eddie even offered me money to go away, which made me mad and I caught at him through the window, meaning to pull him outside. Just as I was struggling with Eddie the husband rushed in with his revolver in his hand. Eddie had lost his balance and was on the floor leaving the two of us face to face. I drew Elrige’s gun, more to scare him off so I could get away. But he ﬁred and missed me, and I fired at almost the same instant and it hit home. I made away across the garden, and as I went I glanced behind me and saw Eddie shut the window, yet now you say he’s gravely ill?”

Sherlock stood up, the interview for him was clearly over, all that was left was for him to deliver the final blow.

“Richard Hilton-Cubitt fired a shot above your head to warn you, it hit the window frame. In turn you shot him through the heart. What you would have seen if you had looked back a little longer is Eddie Hilton pick up his husband’s gun and fire it at close range into his own head. How the bullet didn’t kill him outright I can only wonder.”


	18. Exhausted

After Abe Garvey had finished his story, the plain clothes officer, DS Cooper, formally arrested him and led him away to be escorted to police headquarters in Norwich. DI Martin stayed behind to finish matters with Sherlock and John.

“A bad business, and yet if you hadn’t been here we might never have known of Garvey’s involvement, particularly if Patrick Hilton doesn’t pull through. The evidence all pointed to a murder suicide.”

“I don’t know, one of your colleagues might have found the bullet hole in the window frame,” Sherlock managed to combine the optimum degree of politeness and pessimism in his comment.

“Well it is thanks to you that we have a true picture of what happened here tonight, in all its tragic detail. Will you be going back to London right away? Only there will be a matter of statements.”

John spotted that Sherlock was about torpedo his good record with the Inspector and hastily intervened. “Perhaps our local station can take care of it, we’ll arrange to pop in there and they can send them on to you. It’s been a long night and we have responsibilities at home.”

DI Martin agreed to John’s suggestion, wished them well then went back to his regular job of policing, securing the scene and arranging for the removal of Richard’s body.

Although John had now been awake for over twenty-four hours and Sherlock for even longer, neither of them wished to linger in Norfolk now the case had reached its sorry conclusion. They made their way to the shed at the back of the house where the Aston had been parked along with the other vehicles to disguise their presence from Garvey in silence. On reaching the car Sherlock handed John the keys with a curt “you drive” before folding himself into the passenger seat, bundled into his coat, and with his face to the window.

John didn’t argue with him, although out of the two of them he was probably feeling the most tired, he knew that while Sherlock would never bring himself to say so, the realisation of his worst fears had brought on a blank melancholy that would last until the next success. 

As the wintry sun rose on a day that Richard Hilton-Cubitt would never see, John turned the car out of the drive to head for Baker Street, they had been away for less than nine hours.

A hundred miles down the road, Sherlock still hadn’t said a word. John had found some fairly upbeat music to keep him going until he suddenly felt the tiredness hit him like a wall, so when he saw the sign for services, he pulled in for a coffee and to quickly check his messages. The surgery wasn’t very happy with him, which reminded him of the old days, but Rosie had behaved for Mrs Hudson and that was the main thing.

Sherlock was reluctantly persuaded to stretch his legs, and use the facilities, while John got coffee for them both and found a place to sit. Sherlock was still silent, leaning back in his seat, apparently lost in gloomy speculation until suddenly he sat up, stared at John and said the first words he had spoken for over two hours.

“I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand? How service stations can charge over four quid for a cup of luke warm milky froth and call it coffee?”

“No, that’s Keynesian economics. You are in a place where coffee is required but the options for purchasing are few, therefore they can charge what they like, and make it as tasteless as they like, within reason.”

“You haven’t deleted Maynard Keynes?”

Sherlock looked surprised, “Wasn’t he at school with Mycroft?”

John had no idea if Sherlock was joking or in earnest so let it pass.

“So what don’t you understand?”

“Patrick Hilton. He’s young, quite possibly more than half his life in front of him, intelligent, good looking, you saw the photographs in the kitchen, talented and successful, not short of money and yet even as we speak he may be dying.”

Unsure quite where Sherlock was going with this, John agreed, “A tragedy”

“A tragedy of his own making, he shot himself.”

“He wanted to die.”

“Yes John, there is something about firing a bullet at close range into your brain that might give that impression. What I don’t understand is why.”

“Don’t get in a snit with me. Think about it. His husband had just died in front of him!”

“There would be shock and grief that I understand,” Sherlock frowned, his look giving lie to his words. “But surely the natural reaction would be to seek revenge or justice, not oblivion.”

“May be Patrick blamed himself?”

“Whatever for, he wasn’t responsible for Garvey’s actions.”

“What if he thought he was? What if he regretted not taking Richard into his confidence, perhaps he thought he could have said something, done something, that might have prevented Richard’s death?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to be silent, although John could tell by the pinched look around his eyes that he was still struggling to comprehend the sentiment behind Patrick’s actions.

John let the silence carry them for a while, sipping his disgusting coffee, when he did speak it was quiet and measured, like he was holding himself under great strain, “Of course you don’t understand, how could you? The one thing that everyone has said consistently about Richard and Patrick is how much they loved each other. The police, the Kings, even you said it, affectionate, devoted, happy. Yes I did see the photographs in the kitchen, and their wedding portrait in the hall, and the love they had for each other was unmistakable. That kind of love doesn’t come along very often; I think Patrick didn’t want to have to live without it.

“Who knows what went through his mind in those seconds before he fired the gun. But all I can tell you is that the love his life was dead and he wanted to die too.”

“You’re making this sound very personal.”

John replied immediately, voice still low and vehement, “Because it is personal!”

Sherlock shrank back within the confines of his coat, “Is this about Mary?”

“You still don’t get it do you? Even after everything that has ever happened between us, Moriarty, Magnussen, Mycroft, even Mary and your sister you still don’t get it,” John banged his fist on the table, the mugs rattled, Sherlock flinched, nobody looked round, “Oh for fuck’s sake, you died, you killed yourself in front of me…”

Sherlock went to speak but John had had enough, “I’ve never met him so I can’t be sure but from what I have heard last night and this morning I am pretty certain that Patrick Hilton was a lonely, unhappy man who only really came alive when he met and fell in love with Richard Cubitt, no wonder he wanted to die when he did. I get that, I really do, because when you died I felt the same. Now drink that up and let’s get out of here.”

They didn’t speak for the remainder of the journey, the Aston Martin gobbled up the miles to Baker Street as Sherlock resumed his position staring out of the window while John counted down the junctions to the A406.

As soon as the car was parked they parted company, Sherlock to the solitude of 221b, John to Mrs Hudson’s to collect Rosie. Mrs Hudson gathered that the case had not gone well and was tactful enough not to press John for more than he could offer. She helped him settle Rosie in the taxi and reminded him again that he was always welcome.

As for Sherlock, he hardly knew where he was or what he was doing. He managed to reach his flat before he collapsed, falling full length on the couch again; John’s words echoing round and round his head. Did he say what he meant? Did he mean what he said? Did he mean to say what he said? Did even know what he’d said?

_That he wanted to die… after Sherlock… just like Patrick… after Richard. Patrick loved Richard… very much. Did that mean John felt the same… about him?_

And so it went on, for hours and hours, round and round in Sherlock’s head, every syllable, every nuance, every tone, every expression, examined and catalogued until all other possibilities were exhausted.


	19. Escape

“Gentleman here to see you… not got an appointment. Not a rep.”

Sam had breached the sanctity of John’s consulting room just as his morning surgery was finishing. She did, as she reminds him, knock.

“Oh, you’ve lost your tinsel” The receptionist exclaims at the lack of festive cheer in John’s office and pointing in dismay at his naked monitor, “Never mind, I’ve plenty behind the desk in reception. I’ll sort it out later.” John doesn’t respond but inwardly dreads to think what his room will look like in the morning.

“What does he look like, this man?”

It’s days since he's spoken to Sherlock, three days during which the death of Richard Hilton-Cubitt and their conversation about it has weighed heavily on John’s mind.

“Tall dark and handsome,” Sam announces, “Posh sounding, curly hair.”

John’s heart lifted and sank at the same time, he momentarily wondered if there was a medical term for that.

“Apart from posh how else did he sound?”

“What did you mean?”

“Lucid?”

“Weird. He told me if I was serious about being Head Receptionist I needed to finish my NVQ in business administration and to stop wearing Santa earrings in September, if that’s what you mean?”

“That’s what I mean. I know him, could you tell him I’ll be ten minutes and ask him to wait outside.”

“It’s a bit cold out.”

“Believe me Sam; it is better for everyone if he waits outside.”

John finished writing up his notes, switched off his computer and put on his coat before turning off the lights and going in search of Sherlock.

He found the detective by the lean-to at the side of the surgery frequented by the surprising number of patients who seemed to need a smoke while waiting for their name to be called. He was eyeing up a Marlborough Red longingly but had the grace to look guilty when John appeared.

“Four common colds demanding antibiotics, one serious kidney infection resisting antibiotics, one interesting growth in the inner ear, one antenatal referral, two STDs and one potential breast cancer case although you sincerely hope it isn’t as she’s only in her early thirties and has two children under five.”

John sighed, “You cannot possibly know that.”

“But am I right?”

John sighed again, “You missed the norovirus, the chronic back pain and the alcoholic poisoning, it’s been a busy morning. What are you doing here?”

“I need your help.”

“Is it a case?”

Sherlock appeared to latch onto that word “Yes, a case, that’s it, sort of…”

“Ok, well I have to pick up Rosie in ten minutes so you can tell me about it while we walk.”

“Ah, yes, Watson, of course.”

Sherlock fell into step as John lead him across the road from the surgery, down a side street and onto the leafy estate where Rosie’s minder lived. When Sherlock still showed no signs of speaking, John took the initiative himself.

“Is about the Bluebird Hotel?”

“What? No. The Night Porter will enter a plea bargain eventually and spill the beans.”

“A new case then, good to be busy. So how can I help? Is it something medical?”

They had reached the house and Sherlock’s reply had to wait for Rosie to be collected which seemed to involve far too much unnecessary chatter in his opinion, including introducing Sherlock as a trusted person for future information.

At last with Rosie in her stroller, occupied with her surroundings, they headed for the park and a sheltered bench, once seated Sherlock had as much of John’s attention as he could hope for.

“You know my methods John. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”

“Yes, I may have come across that a few times before.”

“Well…”

Sherlock hesitated.

“Go on”

Sherlock tried again, unsuccessfully.

“Whatever it is spit it out”

John had a feeling that he probably didn’t want to hear what Sherlock had to say but there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

“Well I have been applying that philosophy to our conversation of Monday.”

“I thought you might have.”

“Did you? Why?”

“Because I know you, don’t get distracted, go on.”

“The methodology is flawed, it has failed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because once you have eliminated the impossible in this case, you have eliminated it all, nothing remains.”

John felt a funny sort of pain in his chest; so this was it, three days late but Sherlock had finally worked it out.

“There’s nothing wrong with your philosophy, Sherlock. What always remains is truth, and the truth is I love you every bit as much as Patrick loved Richard, and possibly more because I have loved you longer.”

John relaxed, feeling remarkably light, as if a great weight had been released from his shoulders. _There, he had said it; there was no going back now, no escape._


	20. Christmas Present

“The door was on the latch Mrs Hudson, so I hope you don’t mind me coming straight in.”

“Not all Molly dear, it’s so lovely to see you, you’ve been quite a stranger… and who’s this young man?”

Mrs Hudson was referring to the tall, brown haired man, standing close behind Molly, holding a medium size organ transportation box tightly in both hands.

“This is Stefan, Mrs Hudson. He’s from Krakow in Poland. He’s a radiologist at Bart’s. I’m taking him up Oxford Street to see the lights.”

“Well, come in do,” Mrs Hudson moved away from her front door to let the couple pass.

“Actually, Mrs Hudson, would you mind looking after Stefan for me while I go and see Sherlock. I can hear that he’s in.”

The screeching of the violin was plain to everyone in Baker Street and possibly beyond.

“Of course, go and sort him out, he’s in a terrible mood today. Now, young man, how about a nice cup of tea and one of my mince pies, or would you prefer something stronger? Then you can tell me all about Christmas in your home country.”

Taking the container from Stefan, Molly took herself and it up the seventeen stairs to flat B. She knocked and entered without waiting to be invited, she trusted Mrs Hudson’s assessment of Sherlock’s mood, although the playing said it loud enough, and had no doubt that Sherlock wouldn’t answer even if he heard her.

“Oh it’s you,” Sherlock put down the violin. “Would you like some tea?”

It was fair to say that since that appalling episode during Sherlock’s ordeal in Sherringford the detective had treated Molly with a mixture of respect and wariness. They had had a managed a rather stilted conversation regarding the exact circumstances of the telephone call, Molly had behaved with great dignity and had empathised with Sherlock’s dilemma. She had been hurt, that was true, but both Greg Lestrade and surprisingly Mycroft had helped her to put the situation into perspective. The arrival on the scene of Stefan shortly afterwards had also contributed to the healing process.

Molly had had an enormous crush on Sherlock for years that was true, but ironically, the phone call from Sherringford was the final nail in its coffin.

“No, it’s fine, I’m not stopping” Molly paused for a moment to really look at Sherlock, she had seen him at his best and at his worst, today was somewhere in between, still in his pyjamas, although perfectly decent, unshaven but no more than a day’s stubble, hair rather untidy as it he had raked it with his fingers rather than a comb, eyes bright but the pupils normal and not blown. She decided in her medical opinion Sherlock wasn’t high, but then she’d been fooled before.

“Why are you here then, if you are not stopping?”

“I’ve something for you; you might even call it a Christmas present…” When Sherlock didn’t respond, Molly took the box over to him, and continued, “It’s a perfect central polydactyly complete with partial syndactyly. Right hand preserved, I’ve kept the left one for myself. It’s a donation so we don’t want it back,” Molly thought for a moment, “though perhaps we had better have it back once you've finished with it, we don’t want to trigger a murder investigation if it ends up in Mrs Hudson’s bins.”

She laughed nervously, “Died aged sixty-eight, natural causes, left his body for medical research.”

Sherlock finally spoke, “No Apert’s syndrome or asphyxiating thoracic dystrophy?”

“No, just the unusual hand structure and fully functioning extra finger. Lived a perfectly normal life apart the inability to buy gloves off the peg.”

Molly laughed again at her own joke, and waited for Sherlock to tell her not to try to be funny but he seemed lost in his own thoughts.

 _A central polydactyly complete with webbing,_ Sherlock thought _, imagine studying the bone formation and the musculature._ And then it struck him, an interesting body part from Bart’s, his second wish.

Sherlock shook is head annoyed with himself, when he looked up he caught Molly staring at him intently.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes,” He snapped back, before adding in a gentle tone, “Yes, I’m fine, everyone’s fine, it’s all fine.”

“Well, if you are sure,” Molly didn’t sound convinced but decided to take his word for it.

Sherlock started to speak again, “I apologise.”

Molly was startled, “Whatever for?”

“For what happened before, on the phone, you know… when… I…”

Molly cut him off, “We’ve been through this before, I know, I understand”

“Yes, but I have recently become acutely aware how painful it is to hear words like love from someone you care about who doesn’t mean it.”

Molly was keen to go, she didn’t want to appear rude by leaving Stefan with Mrs Hudson for too long but there was something about Sherlock’s quiet sorrow that brought out her sympathetic side.

“Sherlock, has someone been mean to you?”

“No more than I deserve.”

“Someone close?”

“Just a friend.”

 _John then_ , Molly was also aware of the contents of Sherlock’s phone book. The thought that John might have declared himself after all these years almost made her squeal, but with difficulty she held it in. Instead she asked, “So what did you do, after your friend said they loved you?”

Sherlock stood up straighter, shoulders back. “I walked away. I know when I am being ridiculed.”

 _Oh poor John_ Molly thought, _what must he be going through?_

“You didn’t speak to them, or ask them what they meant?”

Sherlock looked doubtful, “Should I have done, I had already deduced their meaning.”

“Possibly, feelings are not your particular area of expertise.”

Sherlock looked at his feet for a long time, as if he had never seen feet before. When still he didn’t answer Molly urged him, “Phone them Sherlock, or go and see them. Love is precious and life is short.”

She reached up to plant a peck on Sherlock’s stubbly cheek, “Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes,” and was gone before he had a chance to reply.

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson and Stefan were getting along famously, helped by a liberal measure of eggnog. As Molly rescued the bewildered Pole, Mrs Hudson waved them off at the front door insisting, “You must both come to my eve of Christmas Eve party, I’ll make Poppy Seed Cake for you Stefan, so you’ll feel at home.”

Saying they would be there, they made their way through the crowds to Baker Street station.

“Tell me,” Stefan asked the smiling Molly, happy that she seemed so much happier than when they had arrived, “What are you so pleased looking about?”

“It may come to nothing,” Molly replied, moving close enough to him to link her arm in his, “But I might just have given Sherlock something more than a six fingered hand as a Christmas present.”


	21. Winter

The glitter seemed to have got everywhere. John attacked the cuffs with a lint roller before placing the shirt in the washing machine. It was over all his clothes and not just the ones he had worn at work yesterday in the ‘Santa’s Grotto’ that had become of his office.

Despite John’s desire to ignore it, Christmas was inevitably encroaching on his life. He couldn’t get a delivery slot for his groceries so he would have to brave the crowds and shop in person. No luxury of a second breakfast this morning, he was a man on a mission.

Buckling a remarkably cooperative Rosie into her pushchair he headed out to the shops.

 _Perhaps he should make a little effort for Rosie’s sake_ , John thought as he passed a shop window which displayed a ludicrously extensive range of seasonally themed items including a tiny elf costume labelled ‘Baby’s First Christmas’. He shuddered and walked on, perhaps not.

Finally he settled on some twinkling lights to put round the mantelpiece and a poinsettia because they always reminded him of him of his mum. He had bought a few things online for Rosie and they were now safely under his bed. Not that it mattered with an only semi-mobile eleven month old; it must have been some ancient instinct that had made him hide them there.

Food would be an issue and he didn’t fancy running around on Christmas Day trying to find a takeaway that was open, and he certainly wasn’t going to a pub on his own. The idea of a turkey or even a chicken was absurd but he stopped by the local butchers and bought a rather expensive steak which was more of a treat anyway. He passed the off licence and thought about getting a nice single malt, but settled instead for a packet of Assam and another of orange pekoe from the artisan tea shop next door.

Deciding that fruit and veg could wait until Monday and feeling rather pleased with his achievements at this most difficult time of the year, John turned his heavily laden pushchair which now contained an increasingly grizzly Rosie and headed for home.

Reaching the corner of his road, John spotted the figure in black, folded up like a deck chair on his doorstep, and had the advantage of Sherlock who had been expecting him to come the other way. It gave John a momentary respite to prepare for their encounter before Sherlock saw him.

“I might have known” John said by way of greeting “Well, come in then, you can’t sit out here all day scaring the neighbours” Sherlock in fact looked as if he could but he stood up and helped John get the pushchair indoors.

Sherlock did not like John’s flat, it had far too many unhappy associations. This was John’s matrimonial home, a place where Sherlock had scarcely visited and for a while had been specifically prohibited. The last time he had crossed the threshold it had been in response to a summons from John to watch the final message from Mary where she had once again attempted to pull their strings from beyond the grave. Sherlock had found it sinister, but had said nothing, as he had the impression that John had found it comforting.

Once in the kitchen, John got busy putting away the shopping and preparing lunch for Rosie “She needs a nap” he explained “Once she’s gone down, then we’ll talk. Make yourself useful and put the kettle on”

Sherlock did as he was told, while John presented Rosie with some orange coloured pap. Sherlock paced the room watching Rosie out of the corner of his eye. She seemed determined to torment him playing with her food rather than eating it, but eventually her head began to droop and John decided she had managed enough and he took her off to her bedroom to sleep.

On John’s return he went about finishing making the tea that Sherlock had forgotten which made Sherlock want to scream. But finally no more prevarication was possible; the two men went into John’s lounge and sat down.

John put on his sympathetic doctor face that also made Sherlock want to scream, but he managed to hold that back and said “Molly said I should talk to you”

“I know, she texted me”

“She said that feelings are not my particularly area of expertise”

“I think we can agree on that one”

“And that love is precious and life is short”

“Also true”

Sherlock lapsed into silence, it seemed like half an hour although in reality was no more than a minute. John employed the psychiatrist’s technique of not speaking so the other person would. It seldom worked with Sherlock but today it did.

“You said you understood why Patrick Hilton wanted to die, when his husband did?”

“Yes”

“Because, you felt the same when I died”

It was painfully slow going but John thought they were making progress “Yes”

“So when I ‘died’ your feelings for me were as strong as Patrick’s for Richard”

John smiled, bingo “Yes”

Sherlock speeded up “But that was years ago. You couldn’t feel that way now about the man who killed your wife and left your daughter motherless, nor should you”

John sighed; they were back to this “Sherlock I was very angry, I think I have either been angry or depressed most of the last ten years. I took out my anger with Mary and myself on you and I was wrong… Sherlock you did not kill Mary… Mary died saving your life, it was her choice”

“But I provoked …”

“No Vivian Norbury took a weapon to that meeting and made a choice… Just as Richard made a choice when he decided to wait for Garvey with a gun, just as Patrick had a choice when he turned that gun on himself.

“What do you want Sherlock, for me to list all the rotten choices I have made since I met you? We all make choices, every day; shall I get up now? Shall I have toast for breakfast? Most are so mundane we don’t even notice we are making them. Some are significant and life changing and we don’t even notice making them either. Some bad choices turn out for the best, some good choices end in misery, like I said to you before… It is what it is…”

“But you’re not gay!”

“And you’re married to your work, but I don’t think either of those statements were entirely true that night in Angelo’s, and I think between us we’ve had enough of lies.

“I lied to myself like Abe Garvey, so I could be the man I thought I should be, and look where it got me. You believed that you were a sociopath because back when you were a child a very bad thing happened to you that hurt you very much. Somewhere along the line I think you were either taught or you decided on your own that bad things happened because you deserved it and not caring was the only way to survive. That was wrong. You’ve become a blank canvas for other people to write on, Eurus, your Mum and Dad, Mycroft, even me, always trying to fit yourself to other people’s expectations, never being true to yourself because you didn’t know who that was. It’s time for both of us to be honest.

“I’ll stop now because all this soul searching stuff is exhausting, but one final thing, if you delete everything else, just remember this. There would never have been a John and Mary if you hadn’t jumped, Sherlock, it would always have been the two of us”

John paused, he was panting slightly, he had meant it, this heart to heart stuff was exhausting. He finally looked at Sherlock, the detective was looking dazed but on reflection John had seen him worse. Then he smiled, his genuine, just for John smile.

“So, the real Sherlock Holmes, what would he like to do next?”

Sherlock replied immediately “I would like to hug you…again”

Sherlock awkwardly opened his arms, John walked into them and Sherlock closed them again as they rocked very slightly together. John breathed in the essence of him, shampoo, tobacco, formaldehyde, and something else that was quintessentially Sherlock and very male.

And in that quiet and darkening room, as the earth stood still; spring had come at last, after a long and bitter winter.


	22. Miracle

Mrs Hudson was cooking up a storm; there was pastry and baking tins all over the kitchen. She had called Sherlock down twice already, once to take the lid off a jar of cloves, and then again to ask if he had any icing sugar. Now she needed him to run to Tesco’s.

Sherlock who was in a surprisingly good mood agreed without protest which rather took the wind out of his landlady’s sails. Privately Sherlock had already decided, however much he might hate it, he would have to venture out to the shops today.

“Thank you dear, I have so much to get done, I don’t know where to begin”

Sherlock had an answer for that “Write a list check it twice”

Mrs Hudson stopped in her tracks and stared at her tenant in amazement “Sherlock you made a Christmas joke, what on earth has got into you?”

“I don’t believe that I said anything that would cause amusement. The problem with lists is the people who make them rely on their completeness and then items are often overlooked”

“If you say so dear” She turned back to her mixing bowl and sighed “If I get everything I need to do today done, it will be a miracle”

******

His phone said unknown number but Sherlock, whose good mood continued, answered it anyway.

“Mr Holmes?”

A woman’s voice with a soft Norfolk burr. “Mrs King”

“Oh you remember me. I hope you don’t mind, I asked Inspector Martin for your number”

“It’s in the public domain Mrs King” Sherlock swiftly tried to deduce from the tone of her voice what her reason for calling might be “How can I help you?”

“I thought you might be interested to hear about Patrick. He was operated on two days ago; a top surgeon came from London”

“Very interested Mrs King, how is he?”

“Better than we could ever have hoped Mr Holmes”

Sherlock released a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. “I am very glad to hear it”

“The doctors say in time he should make a full recovery”

“That is good news”

“It’s a miracle, that’s what it is Mr Holmes, a miracle”

******

“I finish work lunchtime tomorrow and then I’m off until the 6th” There was a low hum of traffic in the background and John sounded slightly out of breath. _In the park with Rosie then,_ Sherlock smiled fondly; _really the man was as obsessed with fresh air as he was with regular meals._

The conversation paused for a moment as John appeared to have an altercation, there was beeping in the background and a muffled apology. _Ah the pedestrian crossing by the library, knocked into someone with the pushchair._

“So I was thinking what if we come over tomorrow afternoon and bring what we need with us, we could stay for a few days” John sounded uncertain, not of the request, Sherlock deduced, but of its reception.

“What do you think?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure. He liked the sound of the word ‘stay’, but not so closely associated with ‘a few days’ so he said nothing.

“Sherlock… are you still there?” A muttered curse but not so much background noise. _Cars parked on the pavement at the entrance of the cul de sac,_ Sherlock recognised, _but nearly home_.

“Yes”

“So what do you think? Is it ok for me and Rosie to stay at Baker Street?”

“Just for a few days?” Sherlock tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice but didn’t quite succeed. John picked up on it at once.

“One step at a time, Sherlock. We’ll need to get the holidays over before we can do anything permanent. So tomorrow afternoon… ok?”

“Yes, ok. More than… really”

“Ok, see you then” There was a moment more of muffled sound, _fumbling for his key_ , and then the line went dead.

Sherlock put down his phone. John was coming back to Baker Street, with Rosie, his final wish come true. It was indeed a miracle.


	23. Sentiment

By the time John and Rosie arrived around three in the afternoon Sherlock had 221b more or less ready for them. He had enlisted the help of Josie, one of his formerly homeless network who, despite, or perhaps because of having served time for breaking and entering, was a fairly competent carpenter to install stair gates, fit child proof locks to the kitchen cupboards, and put up a couple of shelves. (Sherlock would have done the latter himself but he was on a tight schedule). Various substances had been banished for the interim to the safety of 221c, although Sherlock hoped to restore some of them once negotiations with John were complete. He still didn’t like the sound of a few days and didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise his future happiness.

He’d emerged from the basement flat, to find Madhu and his brother, Mr Chatterjee’s boys wrestling a large fir tree up the stairs to flat b. Sherlock eyed them warily, he hadn’t forgotten and certainly not forgiven their manhandling him into the boot of the Aston, although as they were fully occupied with the tree he decided he was relatively safe. From the landing Mrs Hudson was barking out instructions like a Sergeant Major, while Mark, one of the married ones, flitted around Sherlock’s sitting room with the decorations.

“Mrs Hudson” Sherlock exclaimed when he finally got past the tree and into his own home “What are you doing?”

“Decorating your flat, you can’t leave it bare for Rosie’s first Christmas, and besides I want a little festive cheer for my party”

“You’re having your party in my flat?”

“Of course; it is newly decorated and much bigger than mine”

Mrs Hudson was obviously not in the mood for argument, so Sherlock conceded defeat and left them to it, anyway he had his own preparations to make.

It took three trips for John, Rosie and the various accoutrements that accompanied a small child everywhere to get upstairs, John’s things to his room and Rosie’s to the nursery. But finally they got to sit down with a cup of tea, Sherlock in his chair and John in his with Rosie in her playpen between them. Sherlock had to admit Mark had done a good job on the flat, there were lights on the mantle, tinsel on the bison and the replacement skull was sporting a Santa hat. There was holly and ivy and even mistletoe, everything tasteful and understated, just about the limit to what he and John could tolerate, and for the first time Sherlock saw the point of Christmas.

Mr Chatterjee, once more in favour, appeared with platefuls of sandwiches and savouries, and said he would see them later. John cautioned Sherlock to behave “He’s a widower and his family come from Dhaka, stop winding the poor woman up”.

Sherlock smiled “Not good?”

John smiled back “Bit not good” and it was as if he had never been away.

******

Mrs Turner and her married ones, who had been so helpful in the re-ordering of the flat B, were the first to arrive, followed closely by Molly and Stefan. Mrs Hudson rushed to show off the poppy seed cake which had pride of place in the centre of the table surrounded by the more traditional English fare of mince pies, samosas, pakora and sausage rolls.

“Poppy seeds?” Sherlock enquired of John with a gleam in his eye.

John knew exactly what was going through the detective’s head “Don’t get excited; you’d need to eat an awful lot of cake to get you high!”

Sherlock was diverted from the challenge by the arrival of his parents; their younger son greeted them warmly but with a hint of suspicion “Aren’t you supposed to be away for Christmas?”

Mummy had a ready answer “We don’t fly until 11 o’clock tomorrow morning, we’re staying the night in a hotel at Heathrow. So when Martha invited us, we thought it would much nicer than spending the evening in our room… Now where’s my step-granddaughter?” Mummy cried, swooping down and plucking Rosie from Molly’s lap “I’ve got something for her”

(Both Molly and Mrs Holmes had brought the sweetest of party dresses for Rosie to wear. Rosie neatly dealt with this diplomatic incident by spilling juice while wearing the first and needing to change halfway through the evening thus appearing in the photographs in both outfits. _Proper little diva_ , John thought, he was proud of her).

The night wore on, drink was taken, the food eaten, Sherlock decided that poppy seed cake was grossly overrated.

The combined efforts of his mother and Mrs Hudson resulted in Sherlock playing a selection of Christmas songs on his violin, though it was John’s look of soft affection that made it all worthwhile. After he had had enough and put the violin away he went over to John who was having a fine time talking shop with Molly and Stefan.

Molly turned to Sherlock “I thought Greg was supposed to be coming”

“Who?”

“Don’t start that again” John cut in “I’ve heard you use his real name”

“John, I can think of at least twenty-five boys names in the English language that begin with G, which means I will get it right on average four percent of the time”

At that moment Mrs Hudson swept by with a plate of vol au vents “He’s running late, he’s text to say they’re on their way”

“He’s bringing someone?”

“Yes, he asked especially”

Sherlock went immediately into deduction mode “It’s not anyone we know and it's not the ex-wife although the shine has gone off the PE teacher since the divorce came through and she started living with him, she’s about due to start thinking that the grass is greener on the other side. My money’s on the uniformed officer who was in attendance at the Bluebird Hotel, they seemed very chummy and she was bending over backwards to make an impression although that might be career motivated. Failing that there’s the woman who works on the cigarette counter at the Tesco’s at Portcullis House, they’ve been on flirtation terms for years. Very well ladies and gentlemen, place your bets”

In fact they would all have lost their money as when Greg arrived a few minutes later he was trailing a sheepish looking Mycroft.

Greg, who had had his eye on the British Government for years, surveyed the silenced room, turned to the shell-shocked Sherlock, shrugged his shoulders and said “Well, you did tell me to look after him”

Mummy was the first to react, gathering her first born into her arms she pulled his head down to whisper in his ear “about bloody time too”. While Sherlock looked thunderous and muttered "So that's how he knew it wasn't a politician" to anyone who would listen.

After that things got a little rowdy. Mrs Hudson seemed to have forgotten she had banned Mycroft from her house, and handed him a large Glen Fiddich which seemed to improve his mood no end. He looked even jovial… for Mycroft, but even so clung like a limpet to Greg’s side.

Sherlock, a notorious lightweight when it came to alcohol was expounding at length his very scanty knowledge of the traditions of Christmas. Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged it out of him but he had had cause to revise his opinion of wishing while stirring the pudding, and he had now been distracted by the bunch of mistletoe that had been fixed over the door to the kitchen unnoticed for much of the night.

“For a supposedly major Christian festival it seems to have absorbed a significant number of pagan saturnalia such as kissing under the mistletoe. Which is a rather odd association for an obligate hemiparasitic plant in the order of Santalales. The tradition is Greek…”

“Old Norse” Mycroft corrected.

“Or Greek” Sherlock continued “and to kiss beneath it was to bring peace, good luck and fertility”

“Well, the last one is wasted on us, but ten years on and I’m still up for a snog with the hubby under the mistletoe” said Mark, as he grabbed his husband and pulled him down for a kiss.

“I’ll see your ten years and give you fifty” Mummy said as she pulled Father into a clinch.

Next Molly shyly offered Stefan her cheek, which he deftly bypassed to give her a proper kiss on the lips.

“You’re never too old for a kiss under the mistletoe” Mrs Hudson stated and proceeded to prove it with a bewildered Mr Chatterjee.

“Or too young” Mrs Turner, who Mummy had handed Rosie to when Mycroft arrived, replied, kissing the top of the toddler’s head.

“You’re next” the married ones egged on Greg, who drew a protesting Mycroft to his feet. “No… certainly not… I ref…” The remainder of the word was lost as Lestrade demonstrated a most effective way to silence the bureaucrat, both Sherlock and John couldn’t help being impressed.

John pulled a slightly swaying Sherlock into his arms, as they stood beneath the mistletoe for their turn. It felt so right.

Coming up for air, John whispered. "I do love you, you know Sherlock Holmes”

“And I, Dr Watson, return the sentiment”


	24. And to All a Good Night!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Christmas Eve fluff to bring this fic to a conclusion

Nine o’clock on Christmas Eve and all at flat B was not quiet. It had been a good day, John, Rosie and even Sherlock had slept late after the excitement of Mrs Hudson’s party. John had made breakfast and fed Rosie while Sherlock had tidied away the evidence of the previous night’s revelries, it was all good.

John had disappeared around two for a last minute dash to the shops leaving an ever so slightly anxious Sherlock in charge of Rosie but the afternoon had passed without incident. He’d got back around five and drawing the curtains in a satisfied voice announced “Well that’s that, what we haven’t got now we will do without” which reminded Sherlock rather worryingly of his mother.

Sherlock had lit a fire which was burning brightly behind the new fire guard. John cooked the ‘thing with peas’ for supper and Mrs Hudson joined them, after all she was on duty for the Christmas dinner.

After she had gone back to her own flat and her customary herbal soother, and Rosie had had a bath and was down for the night, John settled in his chair and started flicking through the channels on the TV looking for something to watch. He fancied a drink, but settled for a nice cup of Oolong that he had found in Sherlock’s kitchen. At least he hoped it was Oolong, perhaps he should have checked.

However, both his flatmates seemed determined not to let him relax. Sherlock for some reason had been oscillating between his chair and the couch for the best part of an hour and frankly it was making John giddy. He was just about to say something sharp to Sherlock about making his mind up when the mild chuntering that had been emanating from the baby monitor turned into full blown wailing.

John waited a few moments, but the sound got louder, there was no way he could leave her to cry herself to sleep in a strange cot.

“I’ll get her”

John looked surprised but let Sherlock go.

Rosie seemed much happier now she was downstairs and part of the action. Sherlock sat down on the couch with Rosie on his lap, and she nestled into him, eyes beginning to droop. John, once he had taken something from one of the bags under the tree came and sat with them. He insinuated an arm around Sherlock’s back and gently, so not to disturb Rosie drew him closer, leaving his left hand free to turn the pages of the book he was holding. It was an illustrated copy of _A Visit from St Nicholas_ by Clement Clarke Moore.

“I thought we should start to form some Christmas traditions of our own, now we are a family” John said and when Sherlock didn’t disagree, started to read out loud.

**“'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the flat**

**Not a creature was stirring, not even a cat;**

“It may have escaped your notice John, but we don’t have a cat”

“We don’t have a house either I’m improvising”

**The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,**

**In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;**

**Rosie was nestled all snug in her bed;**

“Well, that’s the theory”

“There’s always a big gap between theory and practice with child care”

**While visions of sugar-plums danced in her head;**

“Wouldn’t a banana or carrot would be more appropriate for an infant of Rosie’s age”

“Quiet”

**And Sherlock in his scarf, and I in my cap,**

**Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,**

“That implies your brain was awake in the first place”

“Git!”

**When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,**

**I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.**

“Our phantom cat perhaps?”

“More likely another CIA agent landing on Mrs H’s bins, knowing you”

**Away to the window I flew like a flash,**

**Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.**

**The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,**

**Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,**

“Five minutes in London and it’s slush”

“You old romantic!”

**When what to my wondering eyes did appear,**

**But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,**

“Physiologically impossible for a mammal such as a Rangifer tarandus to aviate”

“Shush”

**With a little old driver so lively and quick,**

**I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.**

“Quite how a third century CE Greek bishop got sucked into this farrago I can’t imagine?”

“I said quiet”

**More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,**

**And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:**

**"Now, _Dasher_! now, _Dancer_! now _Prancer_ and _Vixen_!**

**On, _Comet_! on, _Cupid_! on, _Donner_ and _Blitzen_!**

“Not exactly indigenous names for reindeer, Tanssija, perhaps or Ragata would be more authentic”

John ignored him and pressed on.

**To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!**

**Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"**

**As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,**

**When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;**

**So up to the housetop the coursers they flew**

“That would give air traffic control at Heathrow something to worry about apart from drones”

**With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—**

**And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof**

**The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.**

**As I drew in my head, and was turning around,**

**Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.**

“Breaking and entering, John? Not a good example”

“Only if there is intent to robbery”

“Criminal trespass then at the very least”

“I’m not getting into an argument with you about Santa’s nefarious purposes, now will you listen”

**He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,**

“Fur John, really, in the 21st Century?”

“Different times, Sherlock, different times”

**And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;**

**A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,**

**And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.**

“A filthy dirty, door to door salesman, who breaks into other people’s homes”

“Sounds like one of your better disguises”

“Really John!”

“It was a compliment”

**His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!**

**His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!**

**His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,**

**And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;**

**The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,**

**And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;**

**He had a broad face and a little round belly**

“Ugh, sounds like Mycroft”

**That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.**

“Perhaps not”

**He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,**

**And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;**

**A wink of his eye and a twist of his head**

**Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;**

**He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,**

**And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,**

**And laying his finger aside of his nose,**

**And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;**

John suddenly realised that Sherlock had given up his running commentary; he looked up from the book and saw that his audience had dropped off to sleep. They looked so content and peaceful that it made his insides go a little wobbly, the two people he loved most in the world, here beside him.

He would need to move them shortly, they couldn’t spend the night like that but he wouldn’t disturb them just yet, he would finish the poem first.

**He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,**

**And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.**

**But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—**

**_“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big shout out to MissDavis for a great set of prompts, I'm off to do my Christmas shopping, cooking , housework and all the things I haven't got done while this fic has taken over my life.  
> "Happy Christmas everyone"


End file.
